


The Leather Bound Journal

by LucyCrewe11 (Raphaela_Crowley)



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Hospital, F/M, Inspired by the Notebook, Memory Loss, Nicholas Sparks References, Peter and Susan aren't related, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 47,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27664954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/LucyCrewe11
Summary: It has been eight years since 1949; Susan isn't doing well. She can't remember much, she's forgotten everything, not only Narnia. So Peter reads to her. He reads to her and she remembers.Narnian Retelling/reimagining of "The Notebook".
Relationships: Peter Pevensie/Susan Pevensie
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. A reader called Paul

**Author's Note:**

> Written during the spring of 2009

At first, I think it is raining. I am fairly certain that I can distantly hear a tap-taping sound on the roof above me. Yet when I open my eyes I can see the sunshine pouring in so clearly from the window. A light sun-shower, I decide, as I stretch my arms over my head and sit up. Another morning in this place. I wish I didn't have to be here and yet I wont leave. I don't care if I am too young to belong-I'm only thirty years old-I just wont leave. Not without her. If she never gets better, if she stays here for ever and ever, I wont go. I will leave only when I can take her hand and hear her footsteps following closely behind my own.

So many times I have pictured this in my mind. My fingers curl around her fingers and she smiles at me; she knows me, really knows me. That blessed woman! That angelic queen! She would walk by my side and we would see the glass double-doors. We'd turn to each other and nod. We'd push them open together and race out of there. Of course, this might never happen. But I hope, goodness knows, I hope. I can't give it up. I never grow weary. I've never tried to seek another. She is the only one and that is that.

My feet sink slightly into the springy light-brown carpet as I stand up slowly. I walk into the small bathroom that is attached to the room they've given me. I sometimes feel bad that some poor elderly man can't have this room, that I am taking it for myself. But in a way, I need it more than most men-no matter how old they are-do. Most of them have families; no matter how many idiots are in it. I haven't got one anymore. Only her. The staff understands this and they've never said a word about my leaving, they understand that it wouldn't do any good. In all honesty, I think they may have learned to like, even love, me. It has been some eight years since I first came; I've been here since 1949. I think the staff would miss me if I went away.

I stumble to the brass sink and turn it on. I splash cool water on my face and say, "Ah." About a hundred times or so before wiping all the coolness away with a cotton towel. Now I look up into the mirror and cringe. Having just woken up, I look terrible. I have a bad case of bed-head; my blond hair sticks up in messy clumps in the back. My eyes look glassy and sort of blood-shot. My breath is bad enough to cause someone to drop dead.

By the Lion, I think to myself, you'd better clean up if you don't want to scare the living daylights out of her. Even if by some miracle she remembers, she is going to take one look at you and think, "I married _that_?"

So I get to work. I comb my hair and brush my teeth and I wash my face once more so that I don't look as tired. So that I don't look as if I was up most of the night, tossing and turning, thinking of the past and then falling into occasional fitful dreams. I notice a line of yellowish stubble and debate on whether or not I should shave. I do so, but not very closely.

Finally, I am satisfied with the way I look. I nod at my reflection and walk out of the bathroom back into the bedroom. I make my own bed, I am not so lazy or unkind to leave it for the staff. They have enough to worry about. Heck, if I'm young enough to constantly be mistaken for one of them, then I am young enough to tidy my own bed in the morning. I look around to make sure everything is neat, for I know they will come and clean and think nothing of it, leaving me with horrible guilt that will make falling asleep even harder. I decide it's perfect and reach for the door handle.

"Almost forgot!" I gasp to myself, stopping mid step and reaching over for something on my nightstand. I'll be needing that. It's very important. It is a small leather-bound journal. Its pages are worn and not at all blank and some long pieces of golden thread fall out, dangling from the sewn-in binding.

Will it work today? I wonder as I step onto into the hall with the beloved journal tucked carefully under one arm.

"Good morning." A friendly middle-aged lady who works here as a nurse smiles at me as she passes.

"Good morning, Della." I raise my free hand and wave to her down the hall.

"Hullo." Miss Rosie waves to me from the doorway of her room. She is eighty-five years old but any fool can see that she was utterly beautiful when she was younger. Her eyes are gorgeous. It is a wonder she never married.

"Hello, Alice." I remember to use her first name, for some reason whenever I call her that she beams happily. I guess she is so old that most people forget she even has a first name.

"Are you going to read to her today?" She asks, looking down at the journal.

"Are you going to ask me that every day?" I tease, raising an eyebrow in faux-surprise.

"Maybe." She laughs cheerfully. For such a sickly old woman, she is awfully happy.

At least she's got more joy than Bert Poble who's sitting in his wheelchair looking sullen-as usual. He's in his late nineties and is as bitter as extra dark chocolate.

"Hello, Bert." I say in my most annoyingly cheerful tone. I don't know why I torment that poor man every day, I just do. "How are you this morning?"

"I keep trying to die but they wont let me." He grumps shortly.

"Good to see you too, sir." I roll my eyes and continue walking down the hallway.

I say a few more short greetings to a few more people I know well whom I can't ignore even when I'm in a hurry. I want to see her, I miss her, even though I saw her just yesterday. I don't know how much longer I can take this, waking up every morning with loneliness swelling up inside me getting bigger with every passing day.

But if it's so bad for me, I remind myself, think of how much worse it is for her. She has nothing, not even memories to visit in the middle of the night. I know she dreams of them-maybe even of me-sometimes but those are nightmares and I don't wish them upon her. She's frightened and alone. She needs me-almost as much as I need her.

I am inches away from her door when one of the staff comes in front of me and frowns. "You didn't come down to breakfast."

"I'm not hungry." I say shortly, not because I am cross but because she is in my way. Standing between me and my beloved gentle queen; not exactly the safest place to be standing.

"You have to keep up your strength." She reminds me.

"I don't pay you to hassle me." I say.

She sighs and gives in. "I'll bring something up for the both of you."

"Thanks, Carrie!" I call after her as she finally gets out of my way and head down the other end of the hall.

"Yeah, whatever." She calls back.

I wonder if she's mad because I never gave her younger sister-who had a crush on me-the time of day. I'm taken, she has to get over it.

I sigh deeply and open the door just a crack, peering in.

There she is. Her back is turned to me, her long black hair is being worn down today. I think she looks beautiful even from behind. I feel terrible that she has to go through all of this. She's even younger than I am by about a year. She's just turned twenty-nine. Eight years, it's been eight bloody years! Why can't she heal? Why can't she remember? Why?

A kindly nurse is with her and is gently nudging her away from the painting on the wall that she cannot stop looking at. It is of a lion. "Come on, sweetheart, you haven't even eaten anything this morning."

"I feel so strange." She says sort of quietly.

Hearing her voice makes me want to cry but I don't. I hold back my tears and gulp down that lump in my throat. I force it to go away. This is the only way to make her better, I can't cry and give myself away. I can't and I wont.

I clear my throat and walk into the room.

The nurse turns and looks at me sadly. "I think you should go down stairs for breakfast." This is her way of saying she doesn't think today is a good day for me to come in and read; of course she must know by now that I wont give in that easily.

"Who's there?" My sweet gentle queen notices I am standing in the room and looks over at me.

I raise an eyebrow at the nurse who knows I am not going anywhere so she might as well play along. "This is Paul." She tells her. "He's come to read to you."

"Read?" She blinks in confusion. "Why?"

"I like to read." I say, getting the feeling that she is studying my face from where she is standing. I am glad I took the time to make myself look presentable.

"That's very nice." She says politely, her eyes stopping their desperate search. "But I'm not much interested in the news."

"It's not the news." I tell her. "It's a story."

"I don't care for most stories." She confesses rather freely, surprising me. She is usually not this open when I first come in. "They give me a horrible ache in my stomach and nightmares at night."

"You'll love this one." I promise.

"It's not a fairy-tale is it?" She wrinkles her nose and I can't help but be reminded of the first time I met her.

"Some parts of it are." I say truthfully. "But it's more of a romance."

"Is it a good one?" she seems to be warming up to the idea.

"A very good one."

"Are you sure I'll like it?"

"Positive." I grin at her now.

"Alright." She actually manages a friendly smile at me. "When will you begin?"

"After breakfast." A voice insists. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carrie and the nurse who was in the room place two trays down on a little table-the sort little girls use for tea parties-and walk away, shutting the door softly behind them.

My queen and I eat together in silence. She says nothing. I say very little. Finally we are done and we leave the table and get up.

"Could you do me a favor?" She asks.

"Sure." I say. "What do you need?"

She hands me a long white sheet she has taken from one of the cabinets. "Please cover that picture." She can't stand looking at the lion anymore. I know why, she does not.

I cover the picture and we take seats by the window. She folds her hands gracefully in her lap and looks up at me. "Whenever you're ready."

"I'm ready now." I tell her, opening the journal to the first page. "Our story begins at a carnival. That's where they met."

"Who? The lovers in the story?" She asks to be sure.

"Yes, them."

"How old were they?" She wants to know.

"He was eleven and she was around ten or so." I explain.

"They met young, then." She realizes.

"Yes, they did."

"Would you like to hear about it?" I ask.

"Yes, please." She looks almost eager and my heart soars. This might be it. Maybe this time I can make it last.

* * *

Peter Pevensie walked through the carnival along side his friend, Warren. They were talking about something but he completely forgot what it was. Standing just a few feet away from him was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She had long black hair parted into two braided pigtails and bright blue eyes.

"Who is that?" Peter said breathlessly, wondering why he suddenly couldn't feel his fingers.

"Oh, forget about it, mate." Warren laughed, shaking his head sympathetically. "You'll never get near the likes of her."

"Why not?" At eleven years old, Peter was a bit touchy and could be insulted rather easily. Why shouldn't the pretty girl want to talk to him? He was decent looking and friendly.

"She's stuck up." Warren sighed. "I already tried to talk to her and she gave me a fake name."

"How do you know it was fake?" Peter asked him.

"Because she told me her name was 'Phyllis' and then someone came running up to her calling her 'Susan'." He explained.

"Susan?" Peter said, not getting the point of the story. "That's her name?"

"I guess so, but it's-" Warren started.

"Bye!" Peter started walking away over towards where Susan was standing with her friends laughing about something.

"Hopeless." Warren sighed, laughing to himself just a little bit.

"Hey, Susan!" Peter said, jumping right in front of her.

"How do you know my name?" She blurted out.

"Want to be friends?" He asked, flat out ignoring her question.

"No." Susan shook her head and walked away. There was something seriously wrong with that boy.

Peter watched her go but he never was one to give up easily. He spent most of the carnival gazing at her from a distance, more determined than ever to make friends with her.

He got his next chance when he saw her getting onto the Ferris wheel. She wasn't alone she was sitting with some boy he didn't know. If they were older, he might have thought that this was her boyfriend but they were much too young for that.

Peter waited until the ride started and when the bar close to where she was sitting was near enough, he grabbed onto it, swinging himself into the middle of the seat.

"Hey, you can't do that!" The ticket man shouted up at him.

"I'll pay you later, alright?" Peter called down to him.

"No, get down from there now!" The man yelled.

"That's going to be sort of difficult." Peter said, noticing that they were now high off the ground. He shrugged and turned to Susan. "Hi, I'm Peter."

"Who is this?" The boy next to her demanded.

Susan looked at him incredulously. "I don't know-" She remembered that he had just told her his name. "He's Peter, I guess."

"You can't have more than two people in a seat!" The ticket man shouted.

"Alright, fine." Peter grabbed onto the bar hanging on with both hands so that he was dangling several feet above the ground. He looked at Susan again, "So, how about us being friends?"

She wrinkled her nose at him. "No."

"No?" Peter shot her a pathetic puppy-dog look. "Why not?"

"I don't need anymore friends." She tried.

"Come on, please?"

"Um, no." Susan told him.

"Fine." Peter sighed softly, letting go of the bar with one hand.

Susan screamed.

"Friends?" He tried again.

"No!" Susan shouted.

"Oh, darn." Peter groaned. "My hand's slipping."

"Grab onto the bar, you idiot!" Someone on the Ferris wheel towards the bottom shouted up at him.

"Just be friends with him, honey." Some old lady on the seat just below theirs suggested. "Who's it gonna hurt?"

"Fine." Susan said, looking nervously at Peter's slipping hand and praying he would stop being a moron and grab onto the bar soon. "I'll be friends with you."

"I don't want your pity." Peter told her.

"No, I want to." Susan blurted out.

"Say it." Peter grinned at her.

"I want to be friends with you." Susan said softy and quickly.

"Say it again, louder, shout it." Peter was enjoying himself way too much.

"I want to be friends with you!" Susan bawled so loudly that pretty much all of Finchley could hear her.

"Alright, alright, we can be friends, stop begging me." Peter laughed, reaching up and grabbing onto the bar.

"Oh you think you're so smart, don't you?" Susan sneered, leaning forward in her seat. She grabbed onto his pants and pulled them down showing everyone his underwear. "That'll teach you."

* * *

I look up to see her reaction. She is giggling softly into the palm of her hand. Her laughter is like music to me. I am glad I at least made her laugh today if not anything more.

"I like this story." She says when she finally stops laughing.

"I knew you would." I say with another warm smile.

"I think she liked him." She tells me.

"Huh?"

"The girl in the story, Susan. I think she liked Peter but was too stuck up and shy to admit it. I'll bet she was glad he forced her to be friends with him."

"I always thought so too. It's nice to hear you say it though."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Do you want to hear a little more?" I lift the journal up making reading motions.

"Sure." She shrugs. "I'd like to know what happens to them."

* * *

One year after the carnival took place, Susan's father died in the war. Her mother was stricken and broken-hearted but she re-married almost right away. It turned out that someone in the army had promised to marry her if her husband died and now he had to keep that promise. He had one son. Susan's mother, Helen, had three children. Susan and her younger siblings Edmund and Lucy.

"I don't want to meet him." Edmund grumped as Helen tried to make him look half-way decent. "I don't want a new father."

"He's a good man, right mummy?" Lucy asked timidly.

"Yes, sweetheart, he and your father were close friends during the fighting." She told her.

"He's bringing his son with him, mum?" Susan asked.

"Yes." Helen said.

The door bell rang, Helen opened the door, and standing there right beside her new stepfather, was none other than the 'friend' Susan had made at the carnival. She hadn't seen him since that night but she had thought about him occasionally.

"You?" She blurted out in surprise.

"Hi, Susan." He smiled at her.

This time she smiled back. "Hi, Peter."

* * *

"I didn't see that coming." She announces.

I look up from the page I am reading.

"I'll bet." I agree.

"I think they were meant to be." She sighs dreamily. She is in good sprits today even though the nurse hadn't thought so at first.

"I _know_ they were." Oh, how I know.


	2. A little bit concerned

I still shudder remembering the first day here. She was terrified. She didn't know what was going on. I wanted to comfort her but it wasn't as if it would do any good. She didn't recognize me and it would have only frightened her all the more. Now though, she seems pensive rather than fearful. She's like that sometimes. Just quiet, she doesn't scream or cry as much as she used to. Although that should make me happy, in a way, it does not. It makes me worry about her more. Does it mean she's getting better or simply that she's withdrawing so deeply into herself that reaching her will soon become impossible? If she goes far enough, I think; my own fear reaching it's high point, no amount of reading will be able to bring her back. I want to believe in miracles. I want to keep hoping for ever and ever. And as I've said before, I'll never leave her. But I'm still afraid.

"I have a question." She says rather suddenly.

"Yes, what is it?" I answer her.

"It's about Edmund." She tells me.

"You remember Edmund?" I blurt out stupidly, forgetting for a moment that she thinks she is talking about a fictional character in a story.

She blinks at me. "What are you talking about? I meant the boy in the story. You know, Susan's younger brother."

"I'm sorry, I thought you were talking about something else." I say quickly, cursing myself inside my head. How could I have been so stupid? I almost blew everything. She needs to hear the rest of the story or it might not work. I know that. I've known that for eight years.

She looks at me the way a mother looks at a child she has falsely accused of something. "It's alright, Paul."

I cringe inwardly when she calls me that. It's not my real name; I know it, the staff knows it, everyone knows it. Everyone that is, except for her.

"What was your question?" I say finally, hoping it is something I can answer without making a complete idiot of myself.

"He isn't going to like Peter at first, is he?" She is so sensitive to people in spite of everything she has lost. It still leaves me in awe.

Something about the look on her face makes me say, "Why would you think that?"

"Because I think people react to things in different ways." She says softly, fingering the side of her chair as she speaks. "Edmund would be resentful about losing his dad and having this man and his son show up. Susan would probably be happy because even though she misses her father, she finds Peter interesting and she's not quite as boring as she seems."

"I never thought she was boring." I say, trying not to gaze at her as I speak these words. I force myself to look this way and that so that I wont be making eye contact with her while I speak. She must think there is a fly in the room that my eyes are chasing.

"I'll bet Lucy adored him." She tells me. "She was the youngest and even though she lost her father, youngest girls, I think tend to be more positive. She'll always remember her real dad but she's happy to have the new people."

"You sure understand these characters." I say, looking over at her again.

"They're easy to understand." She sighs and a sad look comes onto her face. "Unlike most things."

I don't like where this is going. I get the feeling she is going to cry at any given moment. Quickly I look back to the journal. She seems reasonably happy when I am actually reading, it distracts her enough for that. So I clear my throat and signal that I am about to start again.

* * *

The first few days with the new family did not run smoothly. Edmund refused to speak to his stepfather at all and he only spoke to Peter when he wanted to say something nasty. Peter didn't quite understand why Edmund was as dark and hard to relate to as he was. Lucy, goodness knows, seemed glad enough to have him there.

After supper the first night, he found her crying because she'd misplaced her doll and couldn't find it.

"Don't cry, sweetie." Peter said gently, handing her a tissue. "Look, I'll help you find it. Where did you last see your doll?"

Lucy thought hard. "I don't remember."

"Alright, that doesn't give us much to go on." Peter said grimly.

"I know, that's why I was crying." Lucy sniffled.

"Lucy's always been a cry baby." Edmund snorted.

"You know, you could be helping her look." Susan pointed out crossly. "Peter's helping."

"Oh, yes." Edmund rolled his eyes. "Peter's just perfect." He stormed off in a huff leaving the three others behind to wonder at his mood swings.

"Don't mind him, he's just been ill tempered since dad-" She paused. She didn't really want to talk about this now. "Well, never mind."

"Do you remember where you were playing today?" Peter asked Lucy.

She thought hard again. "In my room and then outside near the porch swing."

"Let's check the porch swing first, before it gets too dark out." Peter suggested.

Looking around there was no doll in sight. Then he thought it might have slipped through the cracks of the back of the porch if Lucy had taken it close enough to the little bench in the corner. That guess turned out to be right and soon he was placing the little doll back in Lucy's thankful arms.

"Thank you." She squealed, giving him a big hug. "I don't care what Edmund says about you; I want you to stay."

"You're welcome." Peter said soft of quietly, wishing there was some way of wining over that unmanageable sullen older brother of her's. It wasn't his fault his father had married their mother. He hadn't done anything wrong.

Helen told him not to take it too much to heart.

"He's got a lot going wrong in his life right now." She had told him with tears in her eyes. "School isn't good for him these days, he keeps getting into fights and having problems with bullies. And of course, losing his father didn't help. This war is hard on everyone."

"I didn't make the war happen." Peter retorted over-sensitively.

"I know you didn't, dear." Helen sighed. "And so does Edmund. Sometimes I just think the good parts of him died when this whole mess started. We have to excuse what's left of him."

One month after he had moved in, on a cool summer evening, Peter was inside helping Helen with the dishes. She noticed he was sort of absent-minded and laughed a little to herself. What sort of twelve year old boy would want to be inside doing chores at a time like this?

She gently nudged the plate he was drying out of his hands. "Why don't you join the others outside? I'll finish up here."

"I don't mind helping." Peter assured her.

"I know you don't." Helen told him with a smile. "But there will be more time for dishes when you're older."

Peter gave in and walked out onto the porch. Susan was reading a school book by the last rays of the sunlight. She looked flustered but not like she wanted help with it. More like she was determined to understand it on her own. Peter smiled at her, she looked up and smiled back briefly before returning to the sums in her book.

Lucy waved to him from the sandbox where she was playing. He waved back before turning around to take a seat on the bench beside Edmund. He was writing something in a small notebook and for the first time since Peter had met him he didn't look angry.

"What are you writing?" Peter leaned over to see.

Edmund slammed the notebook shut. "None of your business."

"Ed, don't be rude." Susan said, but with less conviction than usual.

Edmund glared at her, stood up, and went back into the house, slamming the door behind himself.

Susan shook her head sadly.

"Did I miss something?" Peter wanted to know.

"It's not you." Susan told him. She lowered her voice. "He writes poetry but he's too embarrassed to let anyone see it."

"Oh." Peter thought of going in and apologizing to Edmund but somehow he knew that it would only make things worse.

"Yeah." Susan closed her school book and looked up at him. "He still hates me for reading it when I thought he wasn't looking that one time."

"I see." Peter said, his voice sort of quiet now.

"Don't worry about it." Susan sat beside him, reached for his hand, and then squeezed it reassuringly. "He'll come around."

Things might have carried on like that for much longer than they did if it wasn't for the air raids which started one year later. Helen and her husband had made sure that the children knew to run to the bomb shelter whenever the alarms went off.

"Susan, you awake?" Peter called into her room.

"Yes." She answered, her voice filled with fear. "I can't sleep."

"Worried about the bombs?" Peter asked, walking in and turning on the light.

She nodded and tried not to cry. "I'm scared; I don't want to die."

"No one's going to die." Peter forced a laugh in an attempt to make her feel better. "That's what the bomb shelters are for."

"I wish I was as calm as you." Susan said wistfully.

"Do you want to know why I'm so calm?" He asked, a grin of excitement coming onto his face.

"Sure." Susan shrugged.

"Really?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"Alright, come on." He grabbed her wrist and led her out of the room.

"What in the world?" She whispered.

"Trust me." He whisper-laughed.

They walked out of the house into the night air and walked a few blocks down their street until they came it a small intersection that Susan had never seen before.

"Where are we?" She demanded, narrowing her eyes at Peter.

"This is one of the least used streets in all of England." Peter told her, looking very proud that he knew this. "And yet, for some reason unknown to mankind, they put a traffic light here."

"And this makes you calm because...?" Susan thought maybe he had lost his mind.

"Look up." Peter said, not looking any less confident.

She looked up and saw rows and rows of bright twinkling stars. Usually they couldn't see much as far as stars went where they lived because of all the night and foggy mists. But here, you could see heaps of them.

"It's beautiful!" Susan gasped, unable to think of anything else to say.

Peter walked out into the middle of the street and-much to Susan's great astonishment-he laid down right in the middle of it under the traffic light.

"What are you doing?" Susan stepped off of the side walk and hovered over him.

"Watching the lights change colours." Peter said as if it was perfectly sane and normal of him to be doing so.

"I think you're crazy." Susan blurted out, looking down at his calm face which had a greenish glow around it from the traffic light over-head.

"Try it." Peter suggested.

"No." Susan said flatly.

"Come on, if you don't like it I'll give you all of my dessert for the week." Peter came up with.

"This isn't Lucy you're trying to bribe." Susan reminded him.

"Just try it." Peter rolled his eyes and laughed.

"Fine." Susan came next to him and sat down in the middle of the street cross-legged.

Peter shook his head at her. "You're not trying."

Susan sighed and laid down beside him, looking up. For a moment she said nothing. Then finally, "You know, this is sort of relaxing."

"I told you." Peter said, looking up at the light as it turned yellow.

"I just have one little question." Susan said nervously.

Peter made a noise that indicated he was listening.

"What happens if a car comes?"

"We die." Peter said dryly.

"Peter Pevensie!" Susan snapped, reaching over and punching him on the arm.

"I'm kidding." Peter chuckled, rubbing the arm she had just whacked.

Suddenly there was a loud echoing siren that was so piercing in pitch that they both shut their eyes tightly and cringed.

"What's that?" Susan shouted.

"Oh, god!" Peter screamed, realizing what it meant. "Air raid!"

"Run!" They quickly grabbed each other's hands and started running back home towards the bomb shelter.

* * *

I stop reading. Her eyes are wide and she looks at me nervously her gaze never leaving the book in my hands.

"They don't get killed in the air raid." I tell her.

She blinks at me and stammers, "W-w-what?"

"I'm explaining to you because you look nervous." I say, daring for just a short moment to reach over and pat her hand gently.

"I wasn't nervous." She tosses her head as though she is much too grown-up to be so worried about simple story-people.

I raise an eyebrow at her. She knows I don't believe what she just said.

"Alright." She gives in, exhaling deeply. "Maybe I was a little bit _concerned_ , but that's not the same thing."

"Do you still want me to go on?" I hold my breath, praying she will say yes.

"Yes."

My prayers are answered. A miracle might just be on its way after all.


	3. Paul's Visitors

Peter and Susan arrived just in time to see Peter's father pulling Edmund back into the bomb shelter (He had run back into the house), in his right hand was a damaged black and white photograph of his own father; the frame was cracked through the middle-smaller cracks spreading out like little spider webs around it.

When Helen-who was sticking her head out of the bomb shelter-saw them she put her hand to her heart and exclaimed, "Oh, thank god!" She grabbed them, forgetting even to be angry that they had snuck out of the house during war time.

Once everyone was safely inside, Lucy ran over to Peter and threw her arms around his waist. "I thought you were dead." She cried, reaching for Susan's hand as soon as she let go. "I thought Ed was going to die too."

"Shh, it's alright." Peter comforted her, touching the top of her head reassuringly.

"Where were you?" Helen finally remembered to demand.

"We went for a short walk." Susan admitted sheepishly.

"Susan!" Her mother scolded. "Taking a walk around here, at war time no less! What were you thinking?"

"It's my fault, really." Peter cut in. "I made her come."

"I guess you're not so perfect after all." Edmund said in a cold mean tone.

"I wasn't the one who ran back into the house like an idiot." Peter shot back.

Edmund glared at him and then looked back down at the ruined photograph he still held; now in both hands.

"It can't go on like this." Helen's husband said, his voice nearly a whisper. "One of you could have been killed. Four children in a place like this during war time, it's not safe."

"What are you saying?" Helen asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"I'm saying, Helen, that we need to send them away from the city. Have some nice person in the countryside take them in until it's safe for them to come back." He told her gravely.

"Maybe it's for the best, mum." Susan said, reaching out for her mother's hand.

"I don't want to go." Edmund said sharply.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Helen said, glancing back at her husband and knowing he was right. "You'll have to. Just for a while. You'll come home soon, I promise."

"If dad was here, he wouldn't make us go." Edmund grumped, shooting an angry look at his stepfather.

"If your dad was here, I wouldn't be." Peter reminded him.

"All the more reason I wish he was." Edmund said coldly, refusing to speak again, sitting there in silence long after the bombs had stopped falling.

Peter felt horrible. For comfort he looked over at Susan, hoping she would say or do something that would somehow make things better. She didn't, she just looked at him sadly and shook her head.

* * *

I have to stop reading because there is a knock at the door. I feel deeply annoyed. I am so close, I think, so very close. Does anyone have to bother us right now? Right this second? Please no.

Carrie sticks her head in the room. "Paul?"

"Yes?" I say, trying-and failing-not to sound cross.

"You have some visitors." She tells me. "Harold and Alberta Scrubb are here."

"Why?" I moan inwardly. They are such pains in my butt whenever they come over. They just don't understand anything that matters. They make my life a living nightmare during every single visit.

"They wanted to speak with you." Carrie's voice sounds sort of tired. She knows it is going to be like pulling teeth to get me out of this room.

"Now?" I ask bitterly, speaking through my teeth.

"It _is_ time for lunch." Carrie tells me, sort of timidly. I get the feeling she doesn't much like Harold and Alberta either. Then again, really, who does?

"So?" I blurt out.

"They're downstairs in the dinning hall." She says pointedly. "Waiting for you."

"I'm not finished here." I say sternly, glancing over at my queen who is now looking out the window with a slightly dazed expression on her face.

"They wont be too pleased if you don't come." Carrie reminds me.

"I don't care." I say it flat out. It's true, I don't care.

She looks away form the window and back at me again, "It's alright, you can go."

I feel hurt. Am I being dismissed? I know she doesn't recognize me, that's she's forgotten, that it's not her fault, and yet I feel rejected. I don't want to be a stranger to her anymore. I want her to love me again. I want to be able to tell her I love her without scaring her.

Carrie waits as if she knows I am going to get up from the chair and come downstairs with her. I don't feel much anger towards her though because I can see sympathy on her face. She, like the rest of the staff, does feel bad for me. She does care. It is far from being enough but it is better than nothing.

"Paul?" I expected her to be looking out the window again but surprisingly, her gaze hasn't left me yet.

"Yes?" I don't realize I am holding my breath between words. Something about her does this to me. Something about the hope I cling to takes my breath away.

"You will come back and finish the story after lunch, wont you?" Her expression is eager. She wants to know. Maybe even subconsciously wants to remember.

I wish I didn't have to leave at all. I'd rather have lunch with her. I promise I will return as soon as possible. She grants me another friendly smile. Certainly, when I married her, this was not how I pictured our lives together. This distance, this extreme confusion, this never-ending loneliness. It isn't how I thought it would be but it's alright.

The dinning hall smells like old people but I am so used to it that I barely notice this anymore. The stench of the unwashed elderly persons, open vitamin pill jars, and charred oatmeal has become almost undetectable to my nose.

Alberta smells it though and looks nothing short of disgusted. It doesn't matter how often the staff tells her they do clean up the best they can and that in a place like this bad smells come from time to time on their own; she doesn't believe it and says that they should all be fired. What does she know? She rarely steps out of her little circle of book-club friends who don't actually read books.

Harold isn't much better. He was my late mother's brother and although I've heard wonderful things about her, the reputation has not been passed on to him in the least. He's nearly as bad as his annoying wife.

Today he is wearing his brown visiting-jacket and a neat-button up shirt with no tie. His wife looks more like she is about to take a group of teenagers shopping for school supplies than a woman coming to visit her grown-up nephew.

"Hello." Harold says in fake-cheerfulness as I enter the room and take a seat at the table across from him.

"Hello, uncle." I force myself not to sound angry.

"This place has the worst food." Alberta declares, picking at the chunky soup in the little white bowl in front of her. "It's a wonder you haven't died from it yet."

"Good to see you too, Auntie." I say dryly, taking a sip from the glass of water that has been placed in front of me.

"We came to talk to you about something." Harold tells me in a slow, no-nonsense, tone.

"Oh boy." I roll my eyes and lean back in my chair. I already know what this is about. "Here we go again."

"It's been eight years." Harold says in a voice that I guess is supposed to be gentle and comforting but is not. "You can't waste your life here. You are a capable young man, you must realize that. She doesn't know who you are. It's time you got out of here and got a real home and a real job and moved on with your life."

"No." I say firmly.

"Will you stop being so stubborn?" Alberta barks, throwing her hands in the air, already at her wits end.

"Look, the love of my life is up there, she's waiting for me. This is my home now and I wont leave it; not without her." I know my facial expression must be somewhere between wistful and hard.

"She doesn't remember you!" Alberta nearly shouts. "She doesn't even know who you are, she thinks your name is Paul for god's sake."

"Keep your voice down." I say coolly, taking another sip of water. "You wouldn't want to wake up the early afternoon nappers."

Harold shakes his head. "I don't know what's wrong with you."

Alberta slams her fist on the table. "He's a fool." She points at the journal I have placed down on the table. "He honestly thinks some stupid little book-"

"You know what?" I say, getting up from the table and pushing in my chair. I am fully prepared to leave without lunch. I've had enough. "This has been really fun but I'm just not hungry. I have things to do." I snatch up the journal and tuck it back under my arm.

"Get back here young man!" Alberta calls after me. "We are not done talking to you!"

Yes you are, I think, I don't have to take this from you. I keep walking as if I haven't heard her. I don't bother to say goodbye; I know they'll be back sooner than I am ready for anyway.

The swinging wooden doors of the dinning hall close behind me, the clanking of the brass handles banging together drones out their voices and I am more than glad of it.

My queen never eats in the dinning hall except for supper once in a while. Her other two meals are brought up to her room regularly. This is not very unusual here, many people are unable to come downstairs to eat. She has just finished and the nurse is taking away her tray when I return.

"You came back." The delight on her face makes all of the bad feelings Alberta and Harold stirred up go away. I know now more than ever before that I am doing the right thing.

"Of course I did." I smile at her. I wish I could say more than that. I want to tell her how much she means to me but freaking her out is not an option.

"Will you read some more about Peter and Susan?" She asks hopefully. "I was hoping to know what happened to them."

We settle back into our chairs and I open the book. "Now where did we leave off?"

"They were going to be sent away because of the war." She had been paying closer attention than I thought, this is very good.

"Yes of course." I find my place. The part of the story I tell her next is known as _The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe_. In it, Lucy finds a portal into another world called Narnia, Edmund betrays the family, and a wise Lion named Aslan comes into the tale. When I say Aslan's name, I am careful not to put too much emphasis on it. I have learned that when I do she gets very nervous and is even prone to asking me to stop telling the story. So I use caution.

She looks a little uncomfortable and glances anxiously at the white sheet hanging over the picture on the other side of the room. She know it is of a lion and even when it's covered, I think she can see it in her mind. It is like seeing through walls; almost like x-ray vision in her mind's eye and that seems to frighten her.

The next part of the story is safer for me to read and I feel a little better when I reach it. It is the part where Peter rescues Susan from being killed by a wolf.

* * *

Peter heard a rich, deep, echoing sound; it rang loudly in his ears like a wind chime during a summer storm. He looked over to Aslan for some sort of explaintion.

"Susan's horn." Aslan's voice was low, almost a purr.

Peter's eyes widened with fear. It meant she needed help. Pulling out his sword, he raced down the hill he had been standing on and towards what seemed to be a sort of small orchid.

A large beast which he later identified as a wolf, was chasing Susan who was frightened and out of breath. She panted and ran as fast as her legs would take her; her fingers clinging tightly to the little ivory horn she had just blown into. Then she made a mad dash for a large apple tree, let out a scream, and swung herself up.

Much as she struggled, she couldn't get any higher than the second branch.

Peter wondered why she didn't at the very least take a better grip, then he realized the problem. Her face was white, very white, like someone who was about to faint. Her eyes never left the sight of the wolf's snapping jaws below the tree, jumping at the bottom of her dress, hoping to pull her down by it.

If she faints, Peter thought, she'll fall and he'll get her.

He felt very unwell as though he was going to be sick but he knew what he had to do. He charged at the wolf and plunged his sword right through its heart.

Susan screamed again; she hated the sight of blood and in her traumatized state wasn't sure if it was the wolf's or else Peter's. Tears streamed down her face and she shook like a leaf, still hanging onto her branch.

After a few moments, Peter stood up and walked under the tree. "Susan, it's alright, you can come down now."

She shook her head and started to back up deeper into the tree.

"It's alright." Peter said gently, taking a step nearer. "Look, it's just me. The wolf's dead, he can't hurt you."

Blinking back a few more tears, Susan nodded and came down from the tree. She slowly started to walk towards Peter and he saw that she was shaking all over.

It was at this moment, looking at her, that he realized how much she meant to him. He'd liked her before, that was certain, and he had felt a deep need to be friends with her; but it wasn't until right then that he realized that he didn't know what he would do if he ever lost her.

Still crying and shaking, she threw herself into his open arms. He held her close for a few moments whispering a few comforting words, telling her everything was fine, that she was safe now, that he wouldn't let anything hurt her.

Then he kissed her forehead. And her cheeks, both of them. They embraced again and then pulled apart. Without thinking he started kissing her cheeks and forehead again. Thoughtlessly, his lips actually brushed against her's for a half-second.

Before they had a moment to feel truly awkward about this, Aslan's voice called to Peter, "Son of Adam, you've forgotten to clean your sword."

* * *

I look up to see her reaction. It's an expression I struggle to read, her face is a little red and for a moment I wonder if she's figured it out. But that seems highly unlikely, she's never figured it out this early on before and it wouldn't necessarily be a good thing if she did.

I decide to ask her a question, "What do you think of the story so far?"

"It reminds me of something." She closes her eyes tightly and then opens them again. "I can't remember what."

"Maybe you will later." I say optimistically.

"I really do like this story so far, Paul." She tells me, her tone of voice tender and sentimental. "I think I've heard it before."

I play along. "Perhaps someone told it to you when you were small. At a story time."

She shakes her head. "That would've been one very strange story time. I'm sure I'll think of where I heard it before, it'll come to me soon. Please do keep going, I know I'll remember if I just hear some more."

I don't tell her that she has just spoken the very reason for my reading. I don't mention how much I yearn for her memory to return. I just start reading again.


	4. Changes and Changelings

As I read the story to her, I feel thankful that the battle moments have been down-played. He knew she couldn't handle too gory a description of war and wrote it that way on purpose. He never minded such things so I know he didn't do this for himself, he did for her. The thought makes me feel more alone than ever; thinking about him. I pause for a moment. I wonder what he would say if he was here right now. Would he be proud of the way I am handling things? I sigh to myself and keep reading; I know she is listening closely.

Finally the battle is over and I am now telling of a more pleasant moment. When Peter was crowned the high king of Narnia and the others a king and queens under him, all living in a beautiful castle by the sea; Cair Paravel.

"I'm glad they made Peter a high king." She says, smiling to herself. "He seems like the sort of person who would be good at that."

I nod and will myself not to blurt out, "Thank you."

* * *

Time passed and the four of them proved to be good and kind rulers. They looked after things and kept the peace in the kingdom.

Everything seemed right, except for one little problem. Peter had fallen in love with Susan but didn't know how to tell her. Of course he tried several different ways and managed to get several different results out of himself; just not the right one. He'd get worried about looking stupid and change the subject right before he could actually say the three words he'd started the conversation for. All he managed to get from her was a bunch of confused looks.

"How am I ever going to tell her?" Peter sighed to himself as he got on his horse, ready to start jousting practice for the day.

"Tell who what, your majesty?" The faun who was helping get the horse ready asked.

"Oh, nothing." Peter brushed it off and took the reins.

"Almost ready." The faun told him. "You can start as soon as I reach down and tighten the loose strap on that saddle."

Peter opened his mouth to answer but quickly closed it again when he saw Susan coming outside with her bow in her right hand and a quiver of arrows hanging over one shoulder. The area where she usually practiced would give her a clear view of him riding by. That gave him an idea. He knew at once that it was a very bad idea but decided to go through with it anyway.

He leaned down to the faun and whispered. "Don't tighten that, make it loose."

"If I do that, you'll fall right off." The faun warned him.

"I know." Peter shrugged, putting on his helmet while he spoke.

"You _know_?" The faun echoed incredulously.

"Just do it." Peter ordered, rolling his eyes.

"But, your majesty-" He protested.

"Just do it. But make it just a little tight so it doesn't come out right away; still really loose though." Peter said, ignoring the faun's nervous pleas.

"If that's what you want..." The faun gave in and made it loose.

"Alright." Peter said, sitting up straight in the saddle and taking a deep breath. "Here I go." He gave the horse a little kick to let it know it was time to start.

Susan looked up and noticed Peter riding by. She lowered her bow a little, something was wrong. The saddle looked like it was sliding the wrong way. She watched in complete shock and horror as he fell from his horse and landed on the ground.

She dropped the bow and ran as quickly as she could over to him. When she finally reached him, she knelt down and lifted him up half-way onto her lap. "Peter, are you alright?" She took his helmet off. He opened his eyes and looked around when she turned away for a half-second. He wasn't actually hurt, although he could have been. When she turned to look down at him again he quickly shut his eyes and pretended to be unconscious.

She shook him gently. "Peter, please speak to me." Her eyes started to fill up with tears and she leaned closer just in case his voice was too low to hear. Maybe she should call the royal physician.

That was apparently not necessary however because less than two seconds later, he sat up and kissed her on the lips.

She pulled away and smacked him across the face. "How could you scare me like that? I thought you were dead!" She shoved him out of her lap and got up. Then she stamped her foot and stormed off mumbling to herself.

Feeling rather sore from the fall and from being slapped, Peter sat where she had left him and looked up at his horse. "Maybe I shouldn't have done that."

It wasn't a talking horse but it seemed to understand anyway; it let out a snort as if to say, "No, you think?"

* * *

She is laughing to herself now. "I cannot believe he did that."

"Yeah well he was desperate." I laugh along with her, feeling my shoulders shaking just a little.

"He should have just told her how he felt." She says, sitting up a little straighter in her chair. "She would have understood."

"He didn't really think it through." I admit.

"I hope Susan forgives him." She sighs, looking out the window and then back at me again.

"Oh, she will." I assure her. "Don't worry."

"Good." She seems sort of relieved. "I like this story."

"I know." I say, nearly in a whisper. I only hope it will be enough to bring her back to me.

* * *

Soon the story of what had happened had spread all over Cair Paravel like wild fire. Even Lucy couldn't help chuckling once she was sure Peter hadn't really been hurt in the fall.

"Pete, I heard what happened." Edmund choked back a laugh as he approached his stepbrother in the throne room.

"Alright, let me have it." Peter rolled his eyes. "Laugh, tell me how stupid it was, go ahead."

"I'm not going to laugh at you." Edmund told him, not without a little bit of an amused twinkle in his eyes, "I got that out of my system two hours ago when I first heard about it, laughing like a hyena."

"Nice." Peter commented dryly.

"I actually came here to tell you that while I don't agree with how you did it, I am glad you managed to get over how nervous you normally are around her." Edmund said.

"I am not nev-" Peter started before adding a groan of, "Is it that obvious?"

Edmund nodded. "It's pretty obvious."

"Well now what should I do?" Peter moaned, taking a seat on his throne. "She hates me."

"Do something to make it up to her." Edmund suggested with a shrug. "It's not as complicated as you're making it out to be."

Peter put his hand under his chin and thought this over. Maybe Edmund was right. Maybe there was a way to show her how sorry he was for scaring her like that. A few minutes later, he had an idea. This time, it was a good one.

The following morning, Susan found a note attached to her chamber door. She read it over two times, considered crumbling it up, then changed her mind. She read it again and smiled a little to herself. She walked back into her chamber to change her clothes before heading down to the shore where Peter was waiting for her.

She walked over with her arms folded across her chest. "So, why did you want to meet me here?" She tried not to smile but couldn't help it. She wasn't feeling quite as angry at him now as she had before and he did seem sort of apologetic.

"I'm really sorry for scaring you like that." Peter told her, taking a step closer and reaching out to uncross her arms. "So, I think I finally found a way to make it up to you."

Susan raised an eyebrow at him, "Oh really?"

"Come on," He reached for her hand and grinned at her. "You'll love this."

Set up right next to the water was a small golden picnic blanket with silver covered-trays spread out on top of it. On one side, the side Susan assumed had been intended for her to sit on, there was a single red rose with a little note attached to it.

She smiled at Peter and bent down to pick it up and read it. 'Please Forgive me'. She took a seat and looked up at him hovering above her. "Alright, I forgive you."

"Great." Peter quickly sat down next to her and took the cover off of one of the trays. "Breakfast?"

Susan looked down at the food. "Crepes?" She blinked up at him. "But you hate crepes."

"Yeah, but you don't." Peter reminded her. "Last week you said that you liked them better than pancakes."

"Do you always pay this much attention to me?" Susan asked, scooting closer to him.

He turned a little red in the face. "Well, actually, yes."

"Thanks for this." Susan said gratefully, her fingers fiddling with the rose she still held in one hand. "It means a lot."

"I don't kid around with apologies." Peter told her with a slight smirk.

"I guess not." Susan agreed, as he handed her a fork and knife to eat the crepes with. "Thank you."

"And I have one more thing." Peter announced pulling a long brown bottle from behind his back. "Your favorite wine."

"You didn't have to do that." Susan said, watching him struggling to get the cork off.

"Sure I did." Peter said, finally popping the thing off. The cork went flying into the ocean and sank with a faint plopping sound. Peter looked after where it went. "We're not getting that back."

Susan found where he had put the wine glasses and stretched one out for him to pour the wine in.

After a little while of eating and drinking and watching the sea gulls fly by, Susan got up and went knee deep into the water. Peter stood a little ways away watching her.

She looked back at him. "Do you think I could have been a changeling?"

"A _what_?" Peter laughed in disbelief.

"You know, a changeling. Like the ones that are always being switched for the real children in stories." Susan told him, with a slight laugh.

"I think someone's had a _little_ too much to drink." Peter said jokingly, waving the partially empty bottle at her.

"Oh come on," Susan laughed, reaching down and splashing water at him. "I could have been. Maybe that's why everyone finds me so boring because I haven't figured out what I'm meant to change into yet."

"I think you're insane." Peter came into the water and splashed her back.

She splashed him again. "Say it."

"Say what?" He laughed, coming closer to her.

"Say I'm a changeling." She giggled, spinning around.

"Nope." Peter shook his head playfully.

"Say it!" Susan threw herself into his arms nearly knocking him over.

"I wont say it." Peter whispered breathlessly, pulling her closer. "Because if you are a changeling, that means you have to change. I love you just the way you are right now."

She kissed him. "Maybe you're a changeling too."

"Do you want me to change?" He asked, kissing her again.

"No." She said when they finally pulled away. "I love you just the way you are right now, too."

"Don't ever change, Susan." Peter said softly, putting his hand on her cheek.

* * *

I wonder what she is thinking about now. Her eyes are twinkling as she listens. It means something to her but she doesn't seem to understand how that is possible.

"You read it so wonderfully." She says softly.

"What do you mean?" I ask her, closing the journal for now.

"When you read Peter's part in the story, you say it as if you really meant it." She gives me a kind glance. "You should have been an actor."

I don't tell her that it's not acting, that as I read, I remember everything, I feel almost as if it is happening again and I need to say it all over. I say it that way, simply because I still feel that way. Acting was-and never will be-my strong point.

She looks down at my hand. "Oh, you're married!" She has noticed the gold band around my finger. Usually, I take it off before I go to see her-I have my reasons-and I wear it the rest of the time when I am alone or with other people. Today, I have forgotten.

"Yes, I am." I have to confess now.

"How wonderful, I'm so happy for you." She tells me with complete honesty and kindness. "What's your wife like?"

If only she knew, if only she remembered. "She's a lot like the girl in the story, actually." I risk saying. "Sweet, gentle, queenly, and very beautiful."

"Oh, so that's why you read it so nicely!" She exclaims, as if she has just discovered some great secret.

"Yes, that's why." I say, starting to get up. I offer her my hand. "Would you like to come for a walk with me?"

She seems to be thinking it over. She looks both ways and then glances back at my hand. "Well, alright." She places her hand in mine and I help her up.

"You're such a gentleman." She says, following me out into the hallway. "Your wife's lucky to have someone like you."

"Thanks." I mumble weakly.


	5. Fits and Vows

The hallway is long and white and stops at the first trace of colour-a brown carpeted visiting lobby. Most of the time, people like to visit outside on the deck chairs and curvy-patterned iron benches but there are times when being inside is unavoidable. Such as wet weather or illnesses. It's hardly raining at all today other than a few scattered showers with light fluffy clouds that don't even block the sun. Yet, it is enough to keep an old man and his visiting son and grandson in the lobby.

She is walking by my side, no longer holding my hand, looking at everything as if for the first time. She is looking strangely at the people who work behind the fake-marble information desk as if she has never seen them before. This does not surprise me. She hasn't seem much of the staff in a while-only the nurse who works in her room and Carrie every now and then. She doesn't come this way to go downstairs for supper whenever she happens to be up for it.

The grandson is setting up something on the floor to show his grandfather who coughs, curses, and praises the little boy apologetically by turn. I see now what it is. A sort of toy. Little parts that look like railway tracks. He lines them up perfectly, snapping each one into it's rightful place. Once all the parts are together, he takes out the actual toy train and puts it on the tracks.

Suddenly my queen stops looking at the people and is more interested in watching the boy with the train. Her eyes look darker than usual and rather confused as if she is trying to think of something. She takes a few steps closer to get a better view.

The boy pulls out a controller and starts the train moving on the tracks. I notice there is a small box on the side that counts down numbers-for speed, I guess.

"Well isn't that something!" His grandfather exclaims proudly, in-between chest-heaving coughs. "I had railway toys when I was a little boy but they didn't do anything like that. The things in the toys these days!"

"And it can go faster!" The boy tells him, making it go faster and faster until it is nearly more of a long blur than a train.

She looks uneasy and gulps. I wonder what she is thinking, if there is anything in her own mind that is not as blurry as the train whizzing in front of us.

"Aren't you going to stop it now, son?" The boy's father asks. "It's going a mite _too_ fast, don't you think?"

The boy tries to stop it but the button-switch is stuck and wont allow him to do so. The grandfather curses again and then coughs up about half a pound of phlegm.

The train goes so fast that it begins to create sparks and smoke-just like a real railway accident might.

Her eyes widen as she watches this. She is scared, that much I quickly figure out.

"Come on, let's go the other way." I say quickly, trying to nudge her down to the other end of the hall.

It is too late. She is immobile. Her face is white as a sheet and her lips loose their colour completely. She can't tear her eyes away. She can't stop watching the train.

It crashes and falls over. I notice, not without a bit of uneasiness, that the speed numbers have been completely messed up and now happen to read, '1949'.

Her lips part and seemingly out of the blue, a blood-curling scream comes out of her mouth. She screams and screams, the staff notices and starts to rush over but she ignores them. She just keeps screaming.

I can't hold off any longer, I don't care what this might ruin, she needs me. I put my arms around her and pull her close to me. She keeps right on screaming for a little longer, until they turn into wails. The wails become sobs and the sobs slowly become whimpers.

"Shh..." I whisper as she continues to cry into my chest. "It's alright, it wasn't real...everything's alright, you're going to be fine."

"I'm so scared, Paul." She finally says, her voice hoarse from all of her screaming. "I don't know why, I'm just so scared."

Much to my deep annoyance, my arms are pushed open by three nurses who grab onto her and half-lead, half-drag her back down the hall to her room. I fully intend to follow them but after the first step, I am called away.

"Paul," They call me in case she is still in ear-shot. "We need to talk to you."

The staff members have that look about them that I don't like, that look of duty, usually it means they are going to tell me something I wont want to hear.

"What do you need?" I ask them as causally as possible.

"As much as we hate to say this, we are starting to think...that maybe you shouldn't take her out of her room anymore." They stammer, knowing my reaction will not be a pleasant one.

"Why not?" I demand, my eyebrows sinking deeply into my forehead. "She got a little spooked, it's not the end of the world. It doesn't mean she has to stay in her room like a caged animal all the time. In fact, I was hoping if it got a little less wet outside, I could-"

"Look, we know you want to help her but it's not good for someone in her condition to get this agitated, it's not good for anyone. Not only does it make it harder on her nervous system but it scares the other patients here. The majority of them are elderly and screams like that-well, I'm sure you get what we're trying to tell you." One of them interrupts me.

"You don't think I'm going to be able to get her to remember at all, do you?" I ask darkly, suddenly completely furious with them.

They shake their heads. They say it's sweet what I'm trying to do but even when it works-for there have been times when I have managed even to get her to call me by my real name-it doesn't last. She's unwell, they say, I can't change that. They know I love her, they know it's hard on me. But that does not excuse me from following the faculty rules and if I don't, they wont allow me to go see her anymore.

I mutter something very rude at them-out of anger (I wont feel remorse for this until later when I can reflect and realize they are only trying to do their jobs)-and storm off.

When I reach her room, I hear crying coming from inside. She's still worked up, I realize. There are two nurses in there shaking their heads sympathetically.

They block the doorway.

I try to push my way passed them but they nudge me back so gently that I feel almost like a bully.

"Please, Mr. Pevensie, not right now." The first nurse, the one that looks after her most of the time, says pleadingly. "Come back later."

"But-" I can't get the thought that she needs me-needs me right away-out of my mind.

"Please, not right now." Her voice is as caring as a mother's and I can't even be angry at her. "It's too much for her right now."

In the room behind her, I hear vomiting and moaning. I know who it is coming from.

I blink back my tears-I don't like to cry in front of them-and go back to my own room. I sit sideways on my bed and thrust my face into my hands. The door is closed behind me so I don't have to hold back my own emotions now. There's no one to hide them from. I cry for nearly a half-hour. I don't usually let myself get like this, I make myself strong. I have to be strong, always tell myself, I have to be strong for her. Sometimes though, being strong is too hard.

I hate seeing her like that. When she takes on one of her fits. Most of the time, they cannot be avoided, they come seemingly unprovoked. Other times though, someone can be blamed. And more often than not, that someone, the one I blame, no matter who says I shouldn't, is myself.

I could have stopped that, I think after my tears have dried into stained rivers on my cheeks, I could have-no, should have-taken her away from the lobby the second I saw the train.

The reason for the fit, I know very well, even if she doesn't. Eight years ago, right before we moved into this place, there was a railway accident. It killed her two younger siblings, my father, her mother, and my cousin (Harold and Alberta's son). I wasn't killed but I was pretty banged up-my brother-in-law saved my life-he threw himself in front of me at the last minute before I could stop him. When the paramedics finally agreed that I could go home, I went as fast as humanly possible because I was worried about her. When I got there, I saw her huddled up in a corner with her knees pulled to her chest. The phone hung off the kitchen wall by it's long cord; never having been hung up.

She looked up at me, pulled even tighter into herself, and whispered, "Who are you?"

That was when I knew I had to call the doctor.

After a while, I wash my face and try to make my eyes look less puffy before heading back, I don't want her of all people to know how I have been carrying on.

When I reach her room, I knock. No answer. I creak open the door. The room is dark, all the shutters, blinds, and curtains are drawn. None of the nurses are there; they've left her alone now. She is laying sprawled out on the bed but I can tell she is not asleep; just from the way she is breathing.

Her eyes are open and she stares at vacantly at nothing at all. She is quiet now, her tears have long dried up but the look in her blue eyes is nothing but sadness as if she is still crying on the inside.

It takes a moment for her to realize that she is not alone in the room anymore. When she does, she sits up slowly and turns to face me. "Hi."

"Hi." I say, gently, taking a seat beside the bed. "How are you?"

She looks at me and blinks twice. She is trying to figure out who I am. "Paul?"

I cringe but I say, "Yes." Anyway.

"I'm glad you came back." The corners of her lips curl up as if she is trying to smile but simply cannot do so.

I don't know what to say, at times like these, I tend to be at a loss for words.

"I'm sorry about what happened in the lobby." She sounds like a small guilty child apologizing to a parent; this is not the way I'd prefer her to talk to me, but I have to take what she can give. "I don't know what came over me...I just saw the train and the sparks and the numbers and I got so scared that I-"

"It's fine." I assure her. "Don't worry about it."

"Then you'll stay with me a little longer?" She asks hopefully.

"Yes, I'm not going anywhere just yet." I promise her.

"Will you read a little more of that story to me?" She wants to know. "About High King Peter and Queen Susan?"

"Sure." I take out the journal and open it to where we left off.

* * *

Three weeks after their breakfast on the beach, Peter and Susan walked hand-in-hand through the apple orchard the talking moles had planted for them.

Suddenly Peter let go of her hand and looked very serious.

"What's wrong?" Susan asked him.

"Nothing." He said, kneeling on the ground in front of her. "I just wanted to ask you something." He took her hand again. "Susan, do you love me?"

"Yes, of course!" Susan laughed. What sort of question was that? Of course she loved him.

"I see." He smiled at her. "How much?"

"A lot." Susan said sort of coyly.

"Enough to marry me?" He pulled a ring out of his tunic pocket and showed it to her.

Her face flushed red with surprise.

"You don't have to answer right now, if you need a couple of days to think about it, I understand-" Peter started stammering, getting up and brushing the dirt off the side of his tights.

"No, I already have an answer." Susan took a step closer to him. "Yes."

His entire face lit up. "Really?"

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, throwing her arms around him. "Really."

Wedding preparations were started. Lucy was still young enough to be the flower girl but Edmund was getting older and Peter decided maybe he should be the best man instead of ring boy. Aslan would give the ceremony if possible but they didn't know if he'd actually be there-the great Lion always came and went as he pleased-so they had Tumnus or King Lune from Archenland as back up.

One thing Susan found very frustrating though, was that she couldn't write out her wedding vows very well. She knew what she wanted to say but couldn't get over the fact that they sounded-to her, at least-very stupid when read out loud.

"Ed, I need your help." Susan told Edmund as he passed her open chamber doors.

"For the seventh time; and I have been counting, I will _not_ write your wedding vows for you!" Edmund exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air out of irritation.

"Come on, please?" Susan begged, pressing her hands together like she was going to say a prayer.

"It's your wedding, not mine." Edmund reminded her.

"Well, I know what I want to say, I just need someone good with words to make it sound nicer." Susan explained.

"What makes you think I'm good with words?" Edmund folded his arms across his chest.

"You _are_ the family poet." Susan reminded him.

"I most certainly am not!" Edmund retorted, tossing his head back.

"You write tons of poetry!" Susan insisted, her tone staring to border on whiney now.

"Alright fine, I'll see what I can do." Edmund gave in grumpily with a heavy sigh.

"Thanks, Ed, you're the best!" Susan handed him a stack of papers in a thick leather folder.

He rolled his eyes. "And don't you forget it either." He started walking down the hallway muttering to himself.

"Ed!" Peter came out of his room.

"Hey, Pete." Edmund said sort of wearily. "What do you need?"

Peter shook his head. "I can't get my wedding vows to sound right, can you help?"

"This wedding is going to have way too much of _me_ in it." Edmund moaned, agreeing to help him, knowing it was a waste of time to try to say no.


	6. Fights of the past

I'm not sure what most people remember about their wedding day and reflect on most often. I suppose it depends greatly on the individual and what sort of person they are. What I remember is being happy. Stupidly, out of my mind, over the top, big smug grin, happy. There I was with sweaty palms standing on a dais beside Aslan (He ended up being the one to marry us after all) wondering if she was half as glad-or as nervous-as I was. I remember I had learnt the flowery vows my poet brother-in-law had so kindly agreed to help me with but I was so afraid I would forget them completely and say something incredibly stupid.

I may never know how she-my bride-was feeling at that same moment, in all the excitement of our lives I'd long forgotten to ask her. Now, it's too late. Unless, by some miracle, I can make her remember.

I couldn't help glancing up at her whenever I thought I could possibly risk doing so as I read about High King Peter and Queen Susan's wedding. Her face remained as unreadable as ever but I knew she wasn't ignoring the story, she was taking it all in and thinking deeply about it. That much was certain.

"They really loved each other, didn't they?" Her tone is one of complete awe.

"Yes." I say, stopping my reading mid-sentence to answer her. "They did."

"Were they real?" She wants to know. "I mean, it all seems so impossible; so far fetched...But I know I've heard it before. If only I could think of where."

Yes, if only. "They were as real as you and I are." I tell her.

She looks at me curiously; she is studying my face again as if she is trying to look through me, hoping to see someone that she cannot find. The real me, not Paul, the one she can't remember. She gives up, she always does. But she has another question for me.

"That book," She points to the journal in my hands. "The story in it, did you write it yourself?"

I shake my head. "No, someone else did."

"Who?" She is more persistent than usual and I am not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. "Who wrote the story?"

"A poet." I close my eyes, sigh deeply, and then open them again. "A very good poet."

"Was he famous?" She asks.

"No."

"What happened to him?"

"He died."

"Oh. When?"

"About eight years ago."

"I see." She sighs to herself.

I don't want to talk about this right now. I motion back to the journal and she nods.

* * *

Married life mostly agreed with Peter and Susan, they were both loyal and their love didn't fade with the passing of the years-if anything it grew. This is not to say that it was always easy, don't be mislead, it was not. They fought, they got on each other's nerves, they sometimes said mean things that offended the other one greatly; resulting in someone-usually Peter-getting kicked out of the bedroom for the night. But the point was that in spite of all that, they still loved one another dearly. There were mountains of respect and seas of admiration in their relationship and that made it work.

Things might have gone on relatively smoothly if not for the day they all stumbled back into England together during their white stag hunt. Of course it was a deep shock to all of them. They'd long forgotten the spare room and the professor, only to have it all come rushing back to them in a hurry.

They all laid on the floorboards where they'd landed from the tumble out of the wardrobe. Lucy was a little girl again, Edmund a little boy only a year or so older than her, Susan and Peter were thirteen and twelve again.

The door swung open and the professor walked in, looking at them with twinkling eyes. "There you are! What were you all doing in the wardrobe?"

"You wouldn't believe us if we told you, sir." Peter said, smiling over at Susan.

"Try me." Professor Kirke said with a grin.

It took many hours to tell the whole story and when they were finished, it was nearly time for bed. Looking down at her hand, Susan noticed something. Although their hunting garments and grown-up selves were gone, their wedding bands remained. They were still married. Peter was still wearing his, too.

"Wont Mrs. Macready be mad if she comes in and sees us?" Susan whispered as Peter climbed into bed with her.

"Unless we're in a fight, there's no reason we should have to sleep in separate beds." Peter grumped, trying to pull some of the covers onto his side. "And the professor already knows, it's his house anyway, she just works here."

"True." Susan agreed, pulling on the blankets because he had taken most of them. "But what if she writes to mum?"

"We're married." Peter shrugged, finally giving in and letting her take half the blankets back to her side. "We'll probably have to tell your mum ourselves anyway."

"Tell them what?" Susan huffed, rolling over so that she faced him. "That even though we seem like we're thirteen and twelve we're really in our late twenties, royalty, and oh yeah, husband and wife?" She raised both of her eyebrows pointedly.

"Details, details." Peter grumbled.

"Come on, Peter, this is serious." Susan said almost sternly. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know." Peter admitted.

"Well, it's not like they _have_ to find out." Susan contemplated. "Right?"

"I don't think this is something we can hide from them." Peter told her.

"Not for ever, just until we're old enough to get married in this world and then..." It was the only thing Susan could come up with.

"How are we going to keep the fact that we're married a secret for years?" Peter wanted to know.

"Uh...this is bad..." Susan realized.

"We didn't do anything wrong." Peter reminded her.

"Why did you ask me to marry you in the first place?" Susan snapped, mostly out of being overly-tired.

"Why did you say yes?" Peter shot back.

"Oh, so this is my fault now?" Susan glared at him.

"I'm not saying it's your fault."

"Darn right, it isn't." She mumbled.

"Hey, it's not my fault either." Peter defended himself.

"Who wanted to go after the white stag?" Susan pointed out. "Let's follow the stag through the thicket, you said. Let's not go back to Cair Paravel just yet, you said."

"Well I didn't force you to come." Peter told her.

"Whatever." Susan huffed.

"You can't seriously be blaming me!" Peter insisted.

"Why are you yelling at me?" Susan barked at him.

"I'm not yelling!"

"Yes, you are!"

"I am now!" Peter shouted.

"Well congratulations." Susan picked up a pillow and hurled it at him. "Now we're in a fight and you have a perfect excuse to sleep somewhere else."

"Fine, I will." Peter sneered, getting up.

"Fine, go." Susan pretended she didn't care.

"I will!" Peter told her.

"Good riddance!" Susan huffed indifferently.

"Good night!" Peter took his pillow and stormed out of the room.

A few moments later, Susan fell asleep. When she woke up she felt a little warmer (There was an arm around her waist) and could hear familiar breathing. He'd come back in the middle of the night, he hadn't really been mad at her. And neither, Susan realized, had she actually been mad at him.

* * *

She smiles at me now. "That's beautiful."

"What is?" I ask.

"Just the way they are with one another." Her voice is almost wistful now. "It must be wonderful to have someone care about you like that."

"It really is." I assure her. I wish I could tell her everything, that I myself care about her like that, I always have and I always will. But she can't be told that, not just yet.

She gets up and walks around the room for a little while. Her legs have fallen asleep, she tells me. I watch her wander in silence and I feel lonelier than ever. She is lost and with out her, so am I. She starts to look through her draws curiously; She never remembers what's in them. She comes across two items made of gold. A little gold band (Her wedding ring although she doesn't know that's what it is) and a small golden locket.

I watch her examine the ring closely. She hesitates and almost slips it onto her ring finger to see how it looks, then she changes her mind and sets it back down. I sigh deeply.

At first she cannot get the locket open. She laughs a little and tries again. It opens with a slight creak. Inside is a photograph of a man and a woman.

"Who are they?" She wonders aloud.

I know without looking at it who they are. "My parents."

"Why is there a picture of your parents in my room?" She asks me, crinkling her forehead in confusion.

I tell her the truth. "I gave it to you."

"Why?" She is more confused than ever.

"You wanted it." I say with a quick shrug.

"I did?"

"Yes."

"Paul?" She looks at me as if seeing me with new eyes but still doesn't recognize me. "What happened to them?" She fiddles with the long golden chain while she speaks.

"They died." I say quietly.

"How?"

"My father died in an accident when I was about twenty-two years old and my mother died giving birth to me." I explain, not without a pang of sadness, mostly for my father. I never met my mother, I'm sorry about what happened to her but you can't really miss what you've never had. I had a father. Now I don't.

Her expression goes funny. "Hey, wait, how old are you?"

"Thirty." I admit.

"That was eight years ago." She realizes.

"What was eight years ago?" I wonder what she is getting at.

"When your father died." She says pensively.

"Yes, it's been a while." I say, feeling rather puzzled with her at the moment. "So?"

"He died the same year as the poet." She says softly.

"What poet?"

"The one who wrote the story." She almost snaps, wanting me on the same page as her. She motions impatiently at the journal.

"Oh, him." I sort of get an idea where her train of though is headed.

"Did your father write this story?" She flat out asks me.

"No, someone else did." It's the truth. "My father couldn't write to save his life."

"I see." She shakes her head. "I just thought...gosh, it's going to drive me mad if I can't think of where I've heard this before."

"Maybe a little more?" I offer, lifting up the journal just slightly.

* * *

One thing most people don't realize about being in love, is that it's not a magic cure for life's problems in fact, more often than not, it just gives you _more_ issues to deal with, not less.

Peter and Susan quickly found out that although married life in Narnia was no picnic, England had it's own set of problems for a young couple especially considering they were married and were trying to keep it a secret for a little while.

For one thing, In Narnia, Peter had battles. Susan could deal with those, she didn't like them but she knew he had to fight in them, that it was his duty. But it seemed now that he was always in a fight with someone from his school. He usually won but not always.

"I cannot believe you!" Susan exclaimed, one afternoon helping him into the house limping holding a steak up to one eye. "What was it this time?"

"Long story." Peter moaned, taking a seat on one of the kitchen chairs and setting the steak down on the table.

"Peter, you've been in six fights and school hasn't even started yet." Susan pointed out, getting a bandage out of the cupboard. "What's going to happen when we go back to boarding school?"

"Will you stop nagging me?" Peter groaned, holding his head.

She looked both ways to be sure no one else was there and lowered her voice. "I'm your wife, it's my job."

"I'm really disappointed in you." She told him, putting a little bit of disinfectant on a face-cloth and applying it to one of his cuts.

"Ow, that stings." Peter cringed.

"Well maybe next time you'll think twice before you go hitting someone." Susan retorted, not unkindly.

"He hit me first." Peter protested.

"That doesn't mean you have to hit him back." Susan clicked her tongue in disapproval.

"I know." Peter sighed, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. "Things are just so hard being back here after all that."

"I know." Susan said with a reassuring smile. "but we'll get through it together and preferably in one piece, alright?"

"Alright." Peter smiled back at her.

* * *

I notice she is staring hard at a scar on my knuckles on one hand.

"How did you get that?" She seems both curious and nervous at the same time.

I don't know what to tell her. Honestly, I don't think I want her to know. It happened about five years ago. An intern, a male nurse who worked here, tried to take advantage of her. I walked in before he could actually do anything so she wasn't hurt. But she was terrified. I remember taking one look at her face, watching her pull herself into a corner and look at me with such complete fear-as if she thought I was going to try to hurt her too-and then beating the living daylights out of that man.

He ended up in the hospital, I ended up with split open knuckles that left a scar on one hand. I remember visiting her on those days with the cuts on my hand, it hurt so much just to hold the journal open but I forced myself to do it anyway. She actually insisted on helping me re-bandage them and did more to help them heal than I think all the other nurses put together did. Of course, she doesn't remember any of this, it's all gone, lost in the maze of her shifted memory.

"I'd rather not say." I finally come up with.

"Is it the same place you got that light mark on your forehead?" She wants to know.

I shake my head no. It isn't. That was from the railway accident-the one I was the fortunate survivor of.


	7. A listener named Jenny

"It can't be." Lucy whispered, looking out at the large castle ruins in front of her. It had been grand once but was now laid in complete waste. Unvisited and unused for who knew how long. "It can't be...but it is!" She raced up to what had once been a dais and stood in the center of it, looking up.

"What's wrong, Lu?" Peter asked, rushing towards her.

"Peter, if this place had a glass roof and perhaps some marble columns, what would it be an exact match of?" Lucy asked him breathlessly.

All at once, Peter understood where they truly were. They had indeed come back to Narnia again, this was their own castle; Cair Paravel. But, oh, it was so very different. For there was no glass roof and precious few remains of and columns. There was more of a forest of apple trees than a simple courtyard orchard. All of the centaurs, fauns, and dryads that used to attend to them were no where to be found. There was no cry from any familiar talking beast. No one there to welcome them back.

A moment later, Edmund realized this too and felt a chill run up his spine. Nothing, nothing at all. What had happened to their home? Looking to his left there were the shattered remains of what he was pretty sure was once the stair case little Queen Lucy had once fallen down and scraped her chin on during their first year there.

Susan seemed confused as though she didn't quite understand what Lucy meant. Glass roof? Columns? What on earth was that child chattering on about now? Lu and her funny fancies! She smiled at her little sister and then stared hard at the dais.

"Peter, what do you suppose this terrace sort of thing is?" Susan wondered aloud.

Peter's jaw dropped and an expression of complete shock came over his face. "Su!"

Her eyes widened innocently. "What? Why is everybody looking at me like that?" (Edmund and Lucy looked quite surprised by her words, too).

"Susan, don't you recognize it?" Peter half-laughed.

"Recognize what?" Susan crinkled her forehead.

"It's the dais?" Peter raised an eyebrow at her.

"Yes..." Susan still didn't get it.

"We were married on this dais." Peter reminded her.

Susan came up and stood next to him, looking out. Glancing over at her husband she whispered, " _This_ dais? This is the..."

Peter nodded.

"Oh, my." Susan shook her head sadly.

"But how can it be such a ruin in only a year?" Lucy wanted to know. It had only been-for them at least-one year since they'd fallen out of wardrobe.

"Time." Peter said simply. "Time is different here."

"I saw a little well next to some of our old apple trees." Susan said, stepping off of the ruined dais. "I'm going to go get a drink, I'll be right back." She kissed Peter on the cheek and then took off into the sea of shrubbery which had once been a simple garden.

Peter watched her go and sighed. Something was wrong, although he wasn't sure what. She seemed so different lately, he'd tried talking to her but she kept telling him that she was fine and not to worry. She seemed more interested in hanging out with her friends from school and wearing make-up and going to events than usual but he could excuse that as her trying to find herself in England. In Narnia life was different she had to find a way to adjust, they all did. What truly worried him was how dazed and confused she seemed every now and again. She didn't seem to remember Narnia as clearly as he, Lucy, and Edmund did. She strained to remember events and there had even been moments when Peter wondered exactly how much she actually recalled about their rule during the golden age as a whole.

When Susan returned a few moments later, the four of them found a way down into their old treasure chamber.

"Sixteen stairs to the bottom." Peter said grimly.

Edmund followed behind count. Exactly sixteen. This was their treasure chamber alright.

On the last step, Susan's foot struck against something small and hard. She bent down and picked it up. She strained her eyes to focus on it in the dim lighting. A small golden chess knight.

"Hey, that's mine." Edmund commented, lowering his electric torch a little in surprise. "From my chess set."

Susan wasn't really paying attention to her brother though. Looking at the little chess piece, memories very nearly forgotten started to flood back into her mind. Her lovely horse, the royal ships they used to go sailing in, the strange but wonderful creatures who had been her friends, all of it rushed back to her as she gazed down at the glittering piece of gold in her hand. Also she remembered more clearly how she and Peter had fallen in love to begin with; she glanced over at him and smiled.

He smiled back at her and mouthed, "I love you."

"I love you, too." she mouthed back.

* * *

I cannot keep on reading, my eyes are starting to fill with tears and my throat is horribly dry. I blink back the tears and place the open journal down on the nightstand next to the pitcher of water I am reaching for. I pour myself a glass and swallow it down in one long satisfying gulp.

She looks concerned. "Are you alright?"

I nod and pour myself another glass, I gulp this one down also. "I'm fine. Just thirsty, that's all."

"I'm sorry to have kept you here all day, you must be tired." She says.

I smile at her coyly. "You haven't kept me here at all. I'm here because I need to be-want to be."

"I'm glad." She admits, looking at me as one might look at a visiting friend who has come to stay the weekend, but not the way I wish she would look at me. Still, as always, I gladly take whatever she gives. "I get lonely sometimes, I think."

My hand reaches into my pocket and tightens around the small object I have in there. I consider taking it out to show her but I am hesitant to do so. The last time I showed it to her before I finished reading the journal aloud, she became frightened. She took one look at it and realized who she was but still didn't remember any of it.

She felt panicked and she cried terribly. I remember watching her sob into her hands, feeling horrible for putting her through that. Worse, I remember what she finally said to me when she regained composure and could speak freely, "I think you should go." And I did. That was one of the nights I cried myself to sleep. Loneliness will do that to a man from time to time. What had hurt the most, was knowing-somehow I knew for sure-that in her room, she was crying too. She couldn't remember me and knowing she was supposed to was too great a strain on her.

Still, I feel the object and rub my thumb and index finger on it and clutch it in my hand for a short moment before releasing it, letting it fall back into the deepest parts of the my pocket.

* * *

After exploring the treasure chamber for a bit, they realized they really must save the battery on Edmund's torch and decided to go back out again.

"But, wait." Lucy remembered suddenly. "Wasn't there a passage from down here up into all our bed chambers?"

"You don't think parts of them might still be in tack?" Susan gasped, wondering if that was possible. Most of the caste was smashed into open nothingness but there was still a chance that Lucy's guess was correct.

They found the passage and climbed up it.

Edmund's old bed chamber was most tangles of ivy and bits of broken crystal. He did find two old tattered notebooks that he had once used to write poetry in but the golden jewel-encrusted pens and quills he used to write with had been taken as spoil many years before. The notebooks were so torn up that few-if any-words he had written were still readable. He tossed them aside; no point in keeping those. Under what had once been his bed but was now over-grown with weeds, he found something worth taking with him. A small unused leather bound journal. Nothing fancy; but decent, sturdy, and not as weathered as you might have expected. It seemed almost new. The remains of his bed must have protected it somehow. He tucked it under his arm, certain he would find some use for it later.

Lucy's chamber was very nearly passed any recognition. It was so overgrown and torn that she wasn't sure even if this really was her room after all-might it not have been one of her many sitting rooms? There nothing to prove otherwise. She did find a small silver spoon that had an L carved on the handle (It had been buried under a tangle of thick moss and weeds) which she put in her pocket to keep but that was it.

Peter and Susan's chamber was over grown too but it still had a few of their old things in it. Peter found an old hunting knife (He already had found his sword down in the treasure chamber) that had once belonged to him. Susan found an old hat which she remembered wearing to a tournament a long time ago.

"What's this?" Susan pointed to a cream-coloured notch sticking out of a long strand of ivy.

"I think that's where our closet used to be." Peter told her, using his knife to cut some of the ivy away to reveal a thick well-shut door.

Susan put her hand on the notch and slid the door open. A small cloud of dust fell to her feet and beyond it, she saw their old clothing still hanging there.

Slowly, she reached for one of her gowns and took it out. It was still in once piece and completely wearable. She undressed from her old school clothing and then slipped it on.

Peter took a small necklace that he had taken from the treasure chamber out of his pocket and came towards her.

Noticing him opening the clasp, Susan turned her back to him and slid her hair over to one shoulder.

Gently he lifted his arms over her head to put it on her. Fastening the clasp in the back, he leaned down and kissed her neck. When he had finished, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him as she leaned her head backwards onto one of his shoulders.

* * *

There is a knock at the door. I roll my eyes and slam the journal shut. Bother all these interruptions! Standing there in the doorway beside Carrie is none other than Harold and Alberta.

"Visitors." Carrie says weakly, shooting me an apologetic glance. "I told them they can't stay too long because she needs her rest."

"Thank you." I mouth to Carrie before turning my attention back to Harold and Alberta. "What are you doing here?"

"Who are these people?" My queen seems a little bewildered.

"This is my aunt and my uncle." I say shortly.

She smiles politely and extents her hand to them. "It's nice to meet you, I'm-" She pauses for a moment looking horribly distraught. "I'm-" She turns to me. "Paul, I can't remember my name!"

"You're Jennifer." I lie quickly. I have my reasons. I can't let her know her real name, she's smart, she'll make the connection too soon and I'll lose her.

"Jennifer?" She repeats, blinking rapidly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Jenny." I hate having to call her that. I'd rather call her by her real name just as I'd rather have her not call me Paul.

"We just came to see how you were doing, dear." Alberta says, her voice loaded with fake-sympathy.

"And you'll be leaving now." I say through my teeth. "Right?"

"Well-" Harold starts.

I glare at them and shake my head angrily. Whatever they are trying to do isn't going to work, this is my home, that is that. I think they know I am less likely to go off on them in front of 'Jenny', that's the real reason they came up here.

"Paul was just reading me the most lovely story." She announces cheerfully.

"That's nice dear." Alberta pats her on the shoulder. "We'll stop by sometime next weekend."

"Great." I mutter sarcastically.

"Goodbye, Paul." They say quickly, turning to leave at last.

"You don't like them." She says as soon as the door is closed and she knows they are no longer in ear-shot. "Why?"

"Many reasons." I shrug my shoulders not really wanting to get into it. I reach for the journal and I read some more.

The next few parts I must handle as delicately as possible. Peter and Susan are told they will never return to Narnia. It was hard on her then and hearing about it now makes it all the more difficult. Thankfully the way it is written makes it easy to get past these parts quickly without glossing over them or leaving them out completely.

She looks pained, though I can tell she isn't sure why. She looks away from me over to the painting she had me cover up that morning. The sheet falls unexpectedly from it and there is the lion. Looking oh so very golden and glorious. Her eyes shine brightly with tears.

"Lion's scare me, Paul." She tells me, grabbing onto a pillow, pulling it onto her lap, and squeezing it tightly to her chest. "I don't even know why; I think that's what scares me the most."


	8. Still forgotten

I have to cover up the lion picture again; it is making her too nervous but she, for some unexplainable reason, has gotten upset whenever the nurse has suggested removing it from the room completely. She says it makes her uncomfortable and more often than not she has it covered up but the idea of it not being there upsets her in a way most cannot figure out. I think I understand it though. Under it all, she still longs for him. Not the way her little sister did, yet in a strange unusually desperate way of her own.

I get up from my chair and lift up the sheet, making a hanging motion near the painting to see her reaction. Somewhat to my surprise she shakes her head.

"Leave it." She tells me. "I think I'd rather be scared than not feel anything at all."

I can tell she is sad and have to fight against my own first impulse to throw my arms around her, pull her close to me, and whisper that I love her and that everything's going to be fine. Not once in eight years has this intense desire to comfort her lessened. Each day I force myself to exercise self-control. A few times I haven't been able to stop myself, like this morning when the toy train spooked her. For the most part though, I can keep myself in check. I need to remind myself constantly that the only way to get her back, no matter for how short a time period, is to read to her and hope-just hope-that this time she remembers.

My sweet 'Jenny' is looking pensive again. She looks at the lion with a little less fear in her eyes than she had only a few moments ago. Then she looks back at me. Her eyes widen and her lips quiver slightly.

She takes a step closer to me and stares long and hard. "Pe-" She starts to stammer and stutter. "Pe-" She gives up and shakes her head. "Paul."

"What were you trying to say?" I ask, trying to make my voice sound as uninterested as possible.

"Nothing, I just thought..." She shakes her head again. "Nothing. I thought I saw someone else in the room, where you're sitting now."

"Who?" I blurt out before I can stop myself.

She blinks. "Hmm?"

"Who was it?"

"Who was what?" She seems much more confused now.

"Who did you see?"

"Who did I see when?" Her eyebrows sink down deeply into her forehead.

"Just now."

"What do you mean, it's just you in the room, isn't it?" She looks at the door and then back at me.

"Yes, just us."

"Then what were you talking about?" She wants to know.

"You brought it up!" I exclaim. I love her dearly but she can be so frustrating sometimes!

"Brought what up?"

"Maybe I should get back to reading." I decide, reaching for the journal.

"Alright, good idea." She smiles at me encouragingly, already forgetting our near-argument.

* * *

The school year was always particularly hard for Peter and Susan. She was always at her girls school and he was always at his boys school. They wrote to each other of course. Long letters; some causal the sort you might write to any close friend, others more romantic and 'love letter' like. There were a few phone calls but mostly they had to rely on the mail.

One day, Peter was sitting up on his bed trying to get some studying done while his two roommates, Mark and Noel were trying to find a good radio station to listen to.

"This is awful, nothing but news." Noel grumped, turning the dial. "Who cares about the bombings?"

"The people getting blown up?" Peter said dryly, without looking up from his textbook.

Noel didn't answer, he just turned the dial some more until he stopped at a broadcasting of a Sunday school preacher's afternoon sermon.

"Change that, Mate." Mark moaned. "I can't stand preachers. All they ever talk about is god, god, god!"

"You never cease to amaze me, Mark." Peter rolled his eyes and jotted down a few more notes.

"Would you believe Lisa refused to go out with me tonight?" Noel asked Mark.

"I would." Peter yawned, pulling his leg back onto the top bunk it had been dangling off of.

Noel frowned at him and then turned his attention back to Mark, who in a stupid attempt to comfort his friend said, "Well there's no I in rejection." and patted him on the back.

"Actually, there is." Peter reminded him.

"I guess that would explain why he lost the spelling bee." Noel said, fiddling with the dial some more.

"Hey, that contest was fixed!" Mark protested.

" _And now a collection of your favorite party tunes..._ " The voice on the radio announced.

"Yeah!" Noel cheered, pumping his fist in the air.

"... _from the seventeenth century!_ " Classical music started coming out of the radio.

"No!" Mark wailed as though the world was coming to an end. "Make it stop! Make it stop!"

Before either of them could launch into a full panic, there was a knock a the door.

"I'll get it." Peter swung himself down off the bunk, walked over to the door, and then opened it.

It was their dorm director holding a small sack. "Mail call!"

"Anything for me?" Peter asked eagerly, unable to hide his excitement.

"Yes, three letters." The dorm director told him, handing him three small white envelopes.

One was from his father and stepmother telling him about what was going on back home in Finchely and how much they missed him. He smiled and read through it as quickly as possible, hoping to get to the other ones faster. The next one was from Lucy. He read her letter more carefully. She was happy and doing well and couldn't wait until the four of them could all be together again.

The last one was from Susan. He curled up back onto his bunk to read it while his roommates were busy daring each other to read aloud from a girls' heath textbook Noel had swiped from a neighboring school and laughing like hyenas at the words, 'Enlargement of the chests'.

Reading the letter, made Peter miss her more than ever. Suddenly he had an idea. He'd just learned to drive and as one of the few responsible students in his grade, had access to quite a few cars every now and then.

He ran out of the room and chased down the dorm director. "Mr. Davis?"

"Ah, Mr. Pevensie. Something wrong?" He asked good-naturedly knowing Peter wasn't likely to be planning any sort of prank on him unlike most of the youthful hooligans he had to put up with on the campus every day.

"I was wondering if I could take your car." Peter admitted sort of sheepishly.

"My car? What for?" Mr. Davis asked, frowning at two boys struggling to hide an absurdly large keg of beer behind their not-so-large backs. "I see you two! Stay right there!"

"So can I?" Peter tried again.

"Can you what?"

"Borrow your car." Peter said as calmly as possible. "There's someone I want to go visit."

"You know this school has some rules about taking off like this." Mr. Davis reminded him.

"I know." Peter moaned. "I just-"

"But seeing as you maintain an A+ average, have a perfect attendance record, and have managed to stay out of fights for a full two months now, I'm going to allow it." Mr. Davis said, with a kind smile. "Just remember to fill up the tank before you return it and to drive carefully." He reached into his pocket, pulled out his keys, and tossed them to Peter.

"Thank you, sir!" Peter started off for the back exit which led to the parking lot. He got in the car and started up the engine.

Two hours later, Susan's dorm director, Miss Margretta, stuck her head into her room and said, "Susan, you have a phone call in the hallway."

Susan walked out of the room and over to the public phone in the hallway. "Hello?"

"Susan, it's me." Peter's voice came from the other end.

"Peter?" Susan gasped. "Why are you calling?"

"I miss my wife." Peter practically whined into the phone. "I'm lonely."

"I miss you, too." Susan admitted, looking both ways to make sure no one was eavesdropping on her-although in a heavy-traffic hallway it was hard to tell for sure.

"Alright so it's settled." Peter told her. "What time should I come by St. Finbars?"

"Wait, what?" Susan blurted out in extreme surprise. "Where are you?"

"Two blocks away from your school." Peter laughed.

"You've got to be joking!" Susan exclaimed, disbelievingly.

"I'm dead serious." Peter assured her.

"What? How? When?"

"I borrowed the dorm director's car." Peter explained proudly.

"Legally?" Susan asked nervously.

"Of course legally!" Peter snapped into the pay phone. "What kind of high king do you think I am?"

"Well..." Susan teased.

"Very funny, Su." Peter sighed. "What time can I see you?"

"I don't know, my Dorm Director is really strict and she's put this new curfew on us..." Susan told him sadly. "I don't think I'll be able to see you until tomorrow at least."

"Oh, no." Peter moaned. "I have to start driving back tomorrow morning, I have an exam I can't miss in the afternoon!"

"It seems such a shame that you're so close and we can't even see each other." Susan sighed.

Peter lowered his voice. "Hey, feel like sneaking out tonight?"

"I don't think I can do that." Susan told him. It did sound tempting but she knew she really shouldn't.

"Come on, just for a couple of hours?" Peter pleaded.

"How am I going to get out?" Susan gave in. She hadn't seen him in months, maybe she could risk just two short hours.

"Try walking out the front door when the dorm director goes to sleep." Peter suggested. "Works like a dream...not that I actually know anything about that..."

"Sure you don't." Susan giggled.

"Alright, see you soon." Peter said, hanging up the payphone.

At nearly midnight, Susan got up, put on her coat and tip-toed out of the dorm room into the hallway. She crept down towards one of the side doors that were sometimes left open, knowing she was probably less likely to get caught going out that way.

When she got outside, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She let out a yelp and elbowed whomever was standing behind her right in the stomach.

"Ouch!" A familiar voice groaned. "Susan, it's me."

"Oh, Peter, I'm so sorry." Susan gasped, spinning around to face him. "I didn't know it was you."

"Aslan help the mugger who grabs a hold of you." Peter commented, putting his hand to his abdomen, still in a bit of pain.

"Again, sorry." Susan apologized.

Peter smiled and leaned down to kiss her. "It's alright."

"So where are we going?" Susan asked as he slipped his arm around her shoulders and started leading her towards the car.

"Where ever you like." Peter told her, opening the door on the passenger's side for her to get in.

"What's open at this hour?" Susan wondered aloud.

"Gang lairs?" Peter joked.

Susan shook her head and got into the car. Peter shut the door behind her and got in on the driver's side. He started driving but kept looking over at her.

"Peter?" Susan tried not to smile.

"What?" Peter looked confused as though he had just woken up from a deep sleep.

"You're going to get us into a crash if you don't stop looking at me and start looking at the traffic." A smile found it's way into her face in spite of her best efforts.

"There is no traffic." Peter pointed out.

"Well you're still going to hit something." Susan insisted.

"Like what, the curb?" Peter retorted.

"You could hit a lamppost." Susan reminded him.

Peter sighed and started paying closer attention to where he was driving. "So how have you been?"

"Fine." Susan said monosyllabically.

"Passing every class?" Peter couldn't think of what else to say.

"Close enough." Susan wasn't all that great at school work, surprising for someone of her personality.

"What if we just go to a park?" Peter suggested, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to see her reaction. "We could walk around and talk until you have to go back."

"Sure." Susan agreed. She wished that it didn't have to end. That she wasn't going to wake up the next morning in her dorm room knowing he was miles away and that she probably wouldn't see him again until the holidays came around.

Peter must have been thinking the same thing because he didn't say another word until the car came to a stop.

They walked around together for as long as they could risk it and then remembered that Susan really must get back before they realized she was gone.

Peter drove as slowly as humanly possible but with no traffic and few reasons to stop along the way, they both made it back long before either of them were ready to say goodnight.

Susan turned sideways in her seat to face him and he turned to face her. They stared at each other not saying anything for a long time until Peter let out a long mournful sigh and Susan finally said something.

"I have to go."

"Not yet." Peter begged, reaching up to touch the side of her face.

"I have to." Susan gently pulled away from him.

"Goodbye." Peter said weakly.

Susan leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed her back for a few moments until she pulled away again.

"Goodbye, Peter." She whispered, closing the car door carefully so that it would slam behind her.

She watched sadly as the car backed out onto the street and drove out of sight before creeping back into the building.


	9. Only Hope

During the coldest darkest times of the year shut up in their boarding houses with nothing but gossip and school work to keep them from-or perhaps lead them to, depending on how you looked at it-madness, it seemed to both Peter and Susan that the holidays would never come. That the term would last long passed it's numbered days in a never ending vortex of seclusion. Then though, as suddenly as a surprise burglary in the night, the time came and they were both headed home again.

Lucy and Susan's school let out earlier than Peter and Edmund's school did so they arrived at home several hours before them.

"Oh, my darlings, look at you!" Helen exclaimed, hugging her daughters so tightly that they could hardly breathe. "Both of you are getting so big...Lucy, I say you must have shot up a full two inches this past term." She turned to Susan. "And you, you're growing into such a beautiful young lady."

"Thanks, mum." Susan said, finally managing to get free of her mother's grip.

"When are the boys coming?" Lucy wanted to know.

"They should be home around six, dear." Helen told her, handing their luggage to Peter's father so that she could get the house key out of her purse.

"Susan, I hope you don't mind but a friend of mine's son is in town and I invited him to have supper with us tonight." Helen said as passively as possible. "Here you set the table."

"Why?" Susan's blue eyes turned a full shade darker.

"Because we need plates on the table." Mrs. Pevensie laughed before noticing the look on her daughter's face. "Oh, why is he coming here?"

Susan nodded.

"He's only a year older than you and..." She started before Susan cut her off.

"I don't want to be set up." Lucy handed Susan the plates, shooting her a sympathetic look, being the only one in the room who knew the real reason behind her sister's disinterest in finding a boyfriend.

"Sweetheart, it's not a set up. It's just a chance for you to get to know him and maybe..." Helen tried to reason with her. "...but only if you want to."

"It is a set up." Susan insisted bitterly. "And I am not interested."

"But you haven't even met him." Helen reminded her, not understanding the sudden anger in her daughter's facial expression.

"And I don't want to." Susan said firmly, putting the plates out on the table while Lucy took care of the napkins and silverware.

"Well we can't uninvite him." Mrs. Pevensie sighed with a confused shake of her head. "That would be rude."

Before Susan could say anything else, the door swung open and Peter and Edmund walked in.

Edmund flung a duffle bag off his shoulder and accidentally knocked down a crystal vase, which broke into a thousand tiny pieces.

"Peter! Edmund!" Lucy squealed, dropping the remaining napkins and forks on the floor and running over to them. She threw her arms around Peter's waist. "I missed you."

Peter picked her up and spun her around. "I missed _you_!"

"Are you getting taller?" Edmund asked, giving his little sister a hug as soon as Peter set her down.

"I think so." Lucy beamed at him.

Susan walked over to the door at a slower but no less excited pace. Edmund gave her a quick hug. "Hey, Su. Long time no see."

She hugged him back. "Missed you, Ed."

Next she turned over to Peter. "Hi."

"Hi." Peter said softly.

Edmund rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what his sister and brother-in-law were thinking. "No one's looking, go ahead."

Peter pulled her close to him and they kissed quickly, making sure to stop before their parents came into the entrance way.

"Edmund, what in the world happened to the vase?" His mother exclaimed, as soon as she saw the mess on the floor behind him.

"Would you believe Peter did it?" Edmund tried before Peter reached over and slapped him upside the head.

"It was Ed." Lucy blurted out.

"Tattle tale." Edmund teased, not looking the least bit angry.

"Alright, I'll get this cleaned up." Helen laughed, reaching over for the broom they kept near the umbrella racks in case of accidents like this. "You can all sit down in the parlor, our guest should be here soon."

"Guest?" Peter asked curiously. "Who's coming?"

"Son of your stepmother's friend." Peter's father explained. Lowering his voice, he added, "I think she's trying to set him up with Susan."

Peter clenched his jaw tightly and forced a smile. "That's just great."

About twenty minutes later, the guest arrived, he was about Peter's age with light brown hair and nice-looking features. He was rather tall although a half-inch shorter than Mr. Pevensie.

"This is James." Helen announced, leading him into the parlor where everyone else was already sitting. "Martha's son."

James smiled and took a seat on the couch in-between Peter and Susan. "Hi, you must be Susan, I've heard a lot about you."

"That's right." Susan shrugged shaking his hand as quickly as possible, wishing he'd chosen to sit somewhere else.

"Drinks anyone?" Peter's father offered.

"Milk please." Lucy said.

"Just a glass of water for me." Edmund said.

"Iced tea?" Susan asked.

Mr. Pevensie nodded.

"Make that two." James added.

"Three." Peter said quickly, trying very hard not to glare at their guest. After all, he didn't know what was really going on anymore than their parents did.

A little while later, Peter noticed James scooting a little closer to Susan. He put up with it until he saw him put his hand on her knee. Susan cringed, scowling over at her mother for inviting him in the first place.

Peter reached over and picked James's hand off her knee by the wrist, placing it back down on the white cushions.

"Keep your hands to yourself." He hissed.

"A tad over protective, are we?" James joked.

"Don't push it." Peter said through his teeth.

"Why don't we all go into the dinning room now?" Helen suggested standing up as quickly as possible in an attempt to ease some of the building tension.

Most of the meal was spent in silence. Lucy told a couple of jokes, Edmund and Mr. Pevensie were the only ones who laughed. Peter was too worked up for humor to have any effect on him. James just stared at her blankly as though rock had suddenly grown a mouth and spoken.

"Susan, I was wondering..." James said slowly, noticing that Peter was still glaring at him with his fork halfway to his mouth. "...If you'd like to go out with me next Saturday night?"

She shook her head no.

His face fell. "Why not?"

"I sorry, James, I'm just not interested." Susan said as kindly as possible.

Feeling sorry for James, Helen tried to talk her daughter into it. "Are you sure, sweetie? Maybe just one date and-"

"I said, no." Susan said irritably.

"But sweetheart-"

"No!" Susan actually raised her voice, slamming her knife and fork down on the table, striking it against the china plate making a sharp _clink_.

"But why not?" Helen said with the best of intentions.

"Because I'm a married woman, alright?" The words slipped out of her mouth before she was able to stop herself.

* * *

I have to stop reading because Carrie has come back into the room with an apologetic expression on her face. I know that look; another interruption.

"The doctor is ready to see you." She tells us.

I am confused. "Jennifer doesn't have any appointments today."

My gentle queen nods but only to back me up; the odds of her remembering any appointments long enough to actually show up for them are slim to none.

"Not her, you." Carrie says, wringing out her hands while she speaks.

"What for?" I ask. I am only three decades old and healthy as can be, I see the doctor less than anyone else here. Why should I-on today of all days-have to go in for a check up?

"Vaccinations." She sighs.

"I'll skip." I tell her.

"Paul, there are health regulations in this clinic." She reminds me. "You can't live here if you don't take your shots regularly."

"Hang it all." I mumble, getting up from the chair and tucking the journal under my arm. To her, I say in as tender a tone I can risk, "I'll be right back." I think about how if she knew who I was, I would kiss her forehead before leaving the room.

Looking over at her, I have to admit to myself that I have no idea what she's thinking about. If she's wondering about me, feeling nervous about the Lion picture again, or simply being quiet, I can't figure. Her expression is unreadable again but at least I know she wants me to come back. That much, I do know.

The doctor's office is small and clean. It has colourful drawings on the wall that I assume were done by his children. The green wooden countertops have been covered with wallpaper that looks like marble; to give it a fancier appearance, I guess.

I sit in the patient's chair in my undershirt, bored out of my mind. I could pick up one of the magazines I suppose but they are all the sort that are written for men over fifty. I trace my fingers along the binding of the journal that I still hold in my hands. It just might work today, I think, It just might.

The doctor comes in. He is about five years older than I am but we are the same height. He wears a knee-length lab coat and smock over a par of worn black slacks. This is not Mr. Aarons the usual doctor. I've never seen this man before. I wonder if he is new here or if he has simply been working in a part of the clinic I do not frequent.

"Hullo, Mr. Pevensie." He says very formally.

Something about his friendly manner and the fact that he's not so much older than I am makes me say, "You can just call me Peter."

"Peter, then." He nods and puts his pen to his clipboard, apparently he needs a note to remember this by.

He stretches out his hand and I shake it. "I'm Dr. Taylor."

"Nice to meet you." I say.

"You can just call me, Chuck." He decides, glancing back down at his clip board. "Dr. Chuck."

"Alright, Dr. Chuck."

"I see you need two shots today." He opens a case of needles.

"Unfortunately, yes." I say grimly, forcing a smile.

"You don't live here because you're ill, do you, Peter?" He asks me.

"I'm not sick." I tell him honestly.

"I think I've heard about you." He says, filling the needles with the proper vaccinations. "You're that man who reads to his wife every day, aren't you?"

"That's me." I admit.

"Do you mind if I ask you why?" He takes out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and puts some on a cotton ball.

"Why do I read to her?"

"Yes, why do you do that?" He puts the cotton to my left arm and gives me both of the shots as quickly and painlessly as possible. I close my eyes tightly and cringe.

There are many answers I could have given, I suppose, but I give the truest and purest one. "To help her remember."

"But doesn't your wife have..." He starts off strong but his voice gives way and begins to trail off at the end there. He, like everyone else, thinks it's hopeless.

"Yes, she does." I know my tone is curt but I hate it when people look at me the way he is looking at me right now.

"Peter, her disorder is irreversible." Dr. Chuck says sort of quietly.

I get up and put my shirt back on. "That's what they keep telling me." I say with a shrug, picking up the journal. "Can I go now?"

Dr. Chuck nods. "Yes, we're all set here."

"I'm going to her again." I say mostly to myself.

"I hope she remembers." He says softly.

I know he doesn't believe it is possible, he doubts as much as anyone. He doesn't understand but he is also the first one who has ever actually flat out said, 'I hope' to me, regarding her.

"Thank you." this time, my smile is real.


	10. Love and Hate

The dinning room became so instantly silent that you could've heard a pin drop.

Helen's jaw dropped just a little and her eyebrows sank lower. "What?"

Susan turned red in the face and glanced over at Peter who was now lowering himself in his seat.

Helen's eyes shifted over to her stepson. "You knew about this?"

"Yeah...I suppose you could put it like that." Peter said sort of quietly.

"So you knew she was married and you didn't tell us?" His father turned and glared at him.

"Well it's a bit more complicated than that." Peter mumbled, looking under the table at his own feet.

"Susan, you aren't even sixteen yet." Helen said her voice still in a tone of complete shock. "How on earth could you be married?"

"What sort of creep would marry a child?" Peter's father said, shaking his head in disgust. "Peter, tell me who her husband is so I can go kill him."

Peter cringed. He'd faced giants, ogres, witches, angry bloodthirsty armies and yet he was still scared of his own father, go figure. "Dad, I-" He noticed James leaning across the table so he could hear better. He frowned at him, "You, go home."

Noticing Peter's stern expression, James nodded. "Thank you for supper, Mrs. Pevensie." He got up, folded his napkin and pushed in his chair.

"Goodbye James." Mrs. Pevensie said shortly, too focused on her daughter's shocking confession to bid him a proper goodbye.

"Peter, I'm waiting." His father snapped impatiently. "What is his name?"

"Peter Pevensie." Peter mumbled, unable to look his father in the eye.

"What?" Helen gasped incredulously.

"It's true." Susan whispered, tears starting to come into her eyes. "He's my husband."

"Other room, now!" Mr. Pevensie hissed, demanding to speak with them privately.

Peter and Susan looked over at each other nervously as they stood up and followed their angry parents into the other room.

"What do you think they're saying?" Lucy asked Edmund a few minutes later, eyeing the door anxiously.

"I don't know." Edmund admitted, getting up and standing closer to the door so that he could catch a little bit of what they were saying.

He only heard bits and pieces of the loud tense conversation. There was a lot of confusion because Susan and Peter couldn't tell them about Narnia so they got mad at them for not telling them the whole story, demanding to know how they could keep something like this from them in the first place.

After a while of arguing back and forth, the door suddenly swung open and Peter stormed out looking very upset.

"Pete?" Edmund gave him a concerned glance.

Peter didn't say a word to him, he simply went into his bedroom and threw a few things into a suitcase. He zipped it up half way not bothering to make sure stuff wasn't falling out as he stormed out the front door.

From the other room, Edmund heard his sister sob that she was sorry that they had kept it a secret from them but they had no right to say that Peter didn't really love her and that what they had done was a big mistake and watched her run out onto the porch after Peter. "Peter, wait!"

In the driveway, Peter turned around slightly but didn't stop walking.

"Peter, you don't have to leave." Susan raced down the steps wishing he would slow down. "They're mad now but it's just from the shock."

"Did you hear what my own father called me?" Peter said bitterly, still fast-walking away as quickly as possible.

Susan was right at his heels. "Look, he's just upset." She tried to get in front of him so that he couldn't get any further away from the house.

"They don't believe I really care about you." He muttered to himself, gently nudging her out of the way so he could get passed her. "How can they possibly think that?"

"Where are you going anyway?" Susan wanted to know.

Peter clenched his jaw. He angry, not at Susan of course, but still angry. He just wanted to be alone; he had a lot to think about.

"Answer me." Susan pleaded.

"I don't know." He shook his head.

"I'll come with you." Susan decided, walking a little closer to him.

He took a few steps away from her. "No, you wont."

"What? Why not?" She demanded getting more and more worked up by the second.

"They'll be furious, Su." Peter said softly, fighting back the urge to touch her face reassuringly, knowing his father and her mother might be watching them from the windows. "Just go back inside."

"I don't care!" Susan's tone bordered on hysterical now and tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Well I do, alright?" Peter told her firmly, blinking back a few tears of his own.

"Peter..." Susan didn't want to listen to him, what she wanted was to stop him from leaving.

"Please, just go back into the house." Peter said in a softer tone.

"No." Susan said adamantly.

"Well you're not coming with me." Peter reminded her.

Susan's expression tightened into a glare. "Fine!" She tossed up her head. "Go, see if I care!"

Peter didn't answer her which only upset her more.

"I said, I don't care if you leave." She repeated pointedly, clearly expecting a different reaction out of him.

"I heard you." Peter assured her.

"I hate you." Susan blurted out angrily, biting her lip between words so it wouldn't quiver while she spoke. "I don't care if you leave and I don't care if you never come back. I hate you." She reached out and gave him a slight shove.

Peter looked pained but he still kept right on walking away from her.

Susan grabbed onto his shoulder to get his attention. "You know I love you, right? I didn't mean it, please don't think I meant it. I love you."

Under normal circumstances, this would have made him smile, now though it only made him feel worse. He brushed her hand away from him.

"This doesn't mean anything, right?" Susan called after him. "This is just a fight we're having and tomorrow it's all going to be over."

"Goodbye, Su." Peter whispered, taking the last steps off the driveway. "Go home, alright?"

"Only if you promise me you're not leaving for ever." Susan said, standing still now, no longer following him. "Promise me you'll come back."

Peter finally stopped walking for a moment and turned around to face her. "Susan, I promise."

She gulped and blinked back the remaining tears in her eyes. "Thank you."

* * *

Hearing this part of the story, her eyes fill up with tears. She no longer seems worried about caring too much about what happens to these characters, they've come to mean something to her after all.

"He really left?" She asks me in a small timid voice.

I nod. "Yes, he did."

"Well, I guess I can see why." She says meditatively. "I mean, her mum and his dad did over react a bit."

"You can't really blame them though." I point out. "I mean, think about how much of a shock it must have given them to learn that their-at the time-fifteen year old daughter, was married to their sixteen year old son."

"Well it's not like they were related." She has a point of her own.

"I know, however them not knowing about Narnia must have made it so much harder to understand how all of it had happened." I remind her.

"True." She looks over at the journal curiously. "He promised he'd come back though. He does keep his promise, doesn't he?"

I smile at her, she cares even if she doesn't know why. "He comes back."

She breaths a sigh of relief. "Good, she would have been devastated if he didn't, I think."

I wouldn't have let it come to that though, even in my anger. I wouldn't have left her for ever. I couldn't do that; I would have been just as devastated as her if not more so.

I pick up the journal and start to read where we left off.

* * *

Two nights later, Peter returned home. The door had been left open so he just walked in, shutting it behind himself as softly as possible. Walking into the living room, he saw someone asleep on the couch.

The covers were pulled over their head and all he could see of them was a white forehead and a bit of black hair. Susan, he thought.

He bent down near the couch and gently put an arm around the person sleeping there.

"Why are you hugging me?" The sleeping figure, who turned out to be Edmund, demanded.

Peter quickly let go of him. "Sorry, Ed. I thought you were Susan."

"She's not here." Edmund explained, sitting up. "She left about an hour ago."

"Where did she go?" Peter asked him.

"I don't know." Edmund shrugged. "She said she needed a breath of fresh air and was going out for a walk."

Peter tried to think of where she might possibly go and finally realized where she must be. "I think I know where she is, I'll be back soon."

"Lucy will be ecstatic." Edmund told him. "She's been worried about you."

Peter smiled at the thought of sweet little Lucy, she'd always been his favorite in the family. "Well if she gets up, just tell her I came back and that I'm fine, alright?"

Edmund nodded. "Will do."

Peter started walking over to the door.

"Oh, and Peter?"

"Yes?"

"Welcome back."

Susan sat alone in the street of the nearly-deserted intersection she and Peter had visited so long ago during the air raids, looking up at the lights changing colours.

"Su?" She heard a voice behind her say.

"I'm almost afraid to turn around in case you're not really there." Susan whispered.

Peter sat down next to her. "I promised, remember?"

Susan looked over at him and threw herself into his arms. "Where have you been?"

"Staying at an inn right outside of Finchely." Peter explained. "I just had a lot to think about."

"And?" Susan asked rather timidly.

"And what?" Peter crinkled his forehead in confusion.

"You aren't-I mean, we aren't...over?" Susan finally managed to put her biggest fears into words.

Peter's face fell. "No, of course not!" He pulled her close to him. "Did you really think that's why I left?"

"I don't know." Susan whispered, resting her head on his shoulder. "Maybe."

"Susan, listen to me." He said, gently nudging her off of his shoulder so that he could make eye-contact with her. "We will never be over."

"Never?" Susan repeated.

"Never." Peter said firmly. "I was just really torn over what to do. They think we threw our lives away, remember? I didn't know if I should keep going to school or get a job or anything...I mean, I knew how to support you back in Narnia but here is a different story, I was just really confused."

"I'll never doubt you again." Susan promised him.

"You'll never have a need to." Peter told her, taking her hand in his. "How beautiful."

"Yes, the stars do look wonderful tonight." Susan said, gazing up at the night sky above them.

"I didn't mean the stars." Peter whispered in her ear, making her blush.

* * *

"This is a wonderful story." She tells me, more moved by it than ever before. She puts her hand over mine in a friendly way. "Thank you for reading it to me."

"You're welcome." I tell her, watching sadly as she pulls her hand away from mine.

She notices something. "You're almost at the end?" She notices the pages are starting to run out.

"Almost." I admit.

"Oh." She shakes her head, clearly disappointed. "I could have gone on listening to it for ever."

And I could go on telling it for ever. Actually, in a way I have. To a lot of people, eight years would be for ever but each time she remembers eight years becomes like one minute and we are almost back to what we once were. In contrast, eight years feels like a million when she forgets again or simply doesn't remember at all.

"Who are you really?" Her eyes squint at me suspiciously.

"What do you mean?" I ask, somewhat nervously. "I'm Paul, you know that."

"Yes...but I don't know, I get the feeling you're keeping something from me." She looks sort of annoyed.

"Well you know what they say, 'women love mysterious men'." I joke.

She is not amused. "No, that's just what men with no lives say to feel better about themselves."

"You're angry with me?" I ask gently.

"No." She says softly, in a reassuring tone. "I just think you're keeping something from me-I want to know what it is."

"Tell you what," I sigh deeply. "I'll make you a deal."

She sits up a little straighter. "I'm listening."

"If by the time I finish reading the story to you, you haven't figured it out, I'll tell you everything." I hope it doesn't come to that, I would much rather her realize it on her own but I am willing to be fair. "Deal?"

She thinks it over and then smiles at me. "It's a deal."


	11. that's how the story ends?

This is the last chapter in the journal. My hands are actually starting to shake with excitement. I really think she might remember today. I know I am the only one who sees this in her on a day when she seems further gone than ever before but I have reason to believe in miracles. Today, she wants-really wants-to know who I am. There is no dejected disinterest-as there have been on other days. She sees something in me and I think I know what that something is.

I lift the journal up to start reading and she interrupts me. She says she is sorry and very much wants to hear the rest but could she possibly ask me a question first? She promises to make it quick.

"Yes, what is?" I ask.

"Did I know you before?" She says, looking directly into my eyes.

"What do you mean, _before_?" I'm not sure I quite understand her question. "Do you mean before today?"

"Well yes, but I also mean before." She explains, clearly understanding what she is trying to say, even if I don't.

"Before what?" I ask her again.

"Before I lived here." She says, her voice getting a little testy now.

"You remember living somewhere else?" I want to know. This is most certainly new.

"Not exactly." She admits, smiling sheepishly. "But I know I couldn't have been here all my life, I had to have come here from somewhere, right?"

"But you don't remember where?" I double check.

She shakes her head. "No." She looks at me sadly for a moment before insisting that I answer her question.

"Yes," I tell her honestly. "You knew me from before."

"I see." She nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer. "I'm sorry, I keep interrupting you and you've been so patient with me."

"It's alright." I say, my voice nearly a whisper.

* * *

Two and a half years later, Susan got into her car and wiped the tears from her eyes. She and Peter had just had a huge fight. He'd wanted her to come to the professor's house to meet up with Edmund and Lucy. She had refused, saying that she had an important social event that she couldn't miss. It had started off as a small disagreement but had escalated in something larger. In the end, Susan blurted out that seeing as all they wanted to talk about was Narnia-a pretty game they had all played together as children-there was really no point in showing up there. Although he had suspected for a while that her belief and memories of Narnia were starting to fade, Peter hadn't been quite ready for this and hadn't reacted as kindly as he could have.

"I wont be here when you get home." Had been Susan's last remark to him as he left the house, planning to walk to the train station.

"Fine." Was all he said. He tried to act like he didn't care but he did have a lump in his throat that he couldn't quite swallow. He didn't know how it was possible that they had grown so far apart recently and would have done nearly anything to fix it. Anything that is, except stay.

She's not really leaving you, he thought to himself, she's just angry. She'll be there when you get back, she always is. But what if this time she's not?

Looking over his shoulder, Peter saw her getting into the car. Telling himself that she was only going to that silly social thing-whatever it was-and would come back, he kept walking.

Looking into a little hand mirror that she had with her, Susan saw her refection. Her make-up was smudged from crying and she'd forgotten to comb her hair. She couldn't go anywhere like this but if she was going to leave him, she might as well leave now.

Driving down a main road, not sure of where she was going, she thought about Peter. She loved him, funny that she couldn't remember actually falling in love with him, but she still loved him all the same. She didn't want to leave him. She didn't want to keep fighting with him either though. She was sick of it.

Suddenly, Susan realized that where ever she was didn't have any traffic. Her car was the only one on the road there. It was familiar and she knew it at once. In was one of the least used streets in all of England. It was the same intersection she and Peter visited together. It seemed different in the day time-they usually visited it at night-but it was surely the same place in spite of the lack of stars. The lights still changed colours although they had no cars to signal to.

"We will never be over." She heard his voice in her head.

Susan cried harder remembering those words he had said to her because she knew now more than ever that they were the honest truth. She could leave him but it wouldn't do any good.

Looking up at the lights as they changed again, Susan knew what she had to do.

* * *

"The end." I say conclusively, closing the journal.

"What?" She gasps, leaning forward. "That's it?"

"That's it." I open the journal again to show her that the only remaining two pages are blank.

"But that doesn't even make any sense." She protests, looking somewhere between disappointed and upset. "What happened? What was it that she knew she had to do?"

Shrugging my shoulders, I risk saying, "You already know the answer to that, I think."

Her eyes close tightly, she needs to do some deep thinking.

* * *

Looking out the window of the professor's house, Peter Pevensie saw a familiar car pull up. It couldn't be!

"Hey, isn't that...?" Edmund, who was standing beside him, asked.

Peter rushed down the stairs and out to the stone steps at the front of the house just in time to see the car door swing open and Susan step out.

They stood there staring at each other for a few moments before throwing their arms around one another and embracing.

"I'm so sorry." Susan sobbed, clinging to him tightly.

"It's alright." Peter whispered. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"You didn't think I was really going to leave you, did you?" Susan wanted to know, pulling away from him now.

He took her hand in his and smiled at her. "I'd hoped not."

* * *

Her eyes spring back open. "She went to the professor's house and Peter was there, waiting for her."

"You sure?" I ask, a small grin starting to come onto my face.

"Yes, Peter." She says softly, grabbing onto one of my hands and squeezing it gently. "I'm sure."


	12. The Lost Ones

She knows who I am! Tears well up in my eyes as I stand up and throw my arms around her. The journal falls off my lap and lands on the floor with a light _thud_.

"What happened to me?" She whispers; two of the tears falling from her eyes land on my neck and drip down my collar.

"You just forgot." I say, stroking her hair. "It's alright, you're back now."

She pulls away slightly and looks at me for a long time. "That story was about us."

"Yes, Susan, it was." I feel a rush of joy because I don't have to call her Jennifer.

"How many times have you read it to me?" She glances down at the journal near our feet.

"I've lost count." I chuckle.

Her eyes widen with surprise. "Peter, how long has it been?"

"Eight years." I confess as lightly as possible.

"Eight years." She repeats, shaking her head. Looking back at me she adds, "This isn't the first time I've come back to you, is it?"

"No." I tell her. "It's not."

"Why do I always slip away again?" Now her gaze goes over her shoulder at the painting of the lion. I know she is talking about more than just her memory.

"You don't, not for ever." I kiss her on the cheek.

She smiles at me. "We should go."

"Go?" I laugh just because I am so happy and it's either that or crying. "Go where?"

"Anywhere." She seems rather excited at the idea. "We could go out for a drive, just the two of us."

"Sorry, we can't." I hate to disappoint her but after what happened this morning, I'm not allowed to take her out of the room, never mind out of the clinic itself.

"Why not?" She pouts.

"Well, it's against the rules." I explain, feeling a bit like a school teacher.

"Oh, is that all?" She asks teasingly.

"I guess." I don't mention the other reason; that I am afraid I'll lose her again-if she forgets-and we would be away from the clinic with no one to help her.

"Why don't we just go out the window?" She is rather set on getting her way and I don't know if I am as against it as I should be. "We could come back before anyone knew we'd left."

"We can't." I say, cursing myself inwardly for not sounding firmer or at the very least more adamant.

"Please?" I don't know what is about the girls in that family and their eyes but they can look at me in a way that makes it almost impossible to say no to them. Lucy could do it when she was alive, there was precious little I could refuse her. Every once in a while, Susan can make those eyes, too.

"It's not safe." I try, knowing I don't sound convincing but feeling like I have to say it anyway.

"I just wish we could be together like we used to." She tells me with a heavy sigh. "Before any of this happened, before we found out what was wrong with me."

"It can't last." I say, putting my worst fears into words.

"But it could be wonderful while it does." She has a point.

She's still making those eyes at me and I am wearing down, she must know that. Hang it all!

I reach into my pocket and pull out my car keys. I have a car that they so generously let me park in the staff lot even though I'm not one of them. I don't use it much, it's like not I have to go shopping for food-it's provided here-and not like I'd have a whole lot of money to spend anyway. I have enough for gas occasionally but that's about it.

"We are not staying out long." I give in. "Just for a little fresh air. A quick drive, alright?"

She is positively beaming at me right now. I've made her happy and I have to admit it feels pretty good even if I am breaking the rules. I watch her find her wedding ring-she knows what it is now-and slip it back onto her finger where it belongs.

She pulls back the curtains and I reach up and lift the latch to get the window open. First, I climb out, then I offer my hand to help her. Hand in hand we run down to where the car is, laughing and panting for breath. I open the door for her and she gets in. I climb into the driver's seat and start up the car. The engine makes a funny rumbling sound and for a moment I think it is not going to start right; then something clicks and it runs like a dream.

My hands start to sweat a little and I have to take a tighter grip on the steering-wheel; I know I shouldn't be doing this. Giving into her was a bad idea. Anything could go wrong. For a moment I consider turning the car off and taking her back inside, putting my foot down. We cannot go out and that is that. Before I can make up my mind to do this however, I glance over at my wife. She looks so happy. She here with me now and she wants to enjoy every moment of it, so do I.

Backing out the driveway I am worried that we will be caught but none of the staff sees us. We are spotted by a visitor who doesn't know we live there; they probably think we are visitors who have used the wrong parking lot. They wave and I wave back.

"This is wonderful." Susan leans her head on my shoulder for a moment.

"I told you that you would like the story." I tease.

"Thank you..." She says in a low, soft, tone as we zip down two small streets. "...for everything."

"You're welcome." I tell her as we pass by a low stone wall on the side of the road.

She leans out the window and says, "Is that the graveyard?"

"Yes, it's a graveyard." I answer, somewhat absent mindedly-not understanding what it is that she is really asking me.

"No, I mean-is it _the_ graveyard?" She repeats pointedly.

"Oh." I realize what she means now.

"Is it?" her voice isn't as strong now.

"Yes, it is."

"Can we stop?" She asks, gently touching the side of my arm.

"Sure." I park the car and we get out.

Three rolling green hills behind the wall are covered with dark marble tombstones. Along the edges of the these hills are intertwining tan-coloured cobblestone paths. We walk up one of these paths until we reach the family plot we are looking for.

She bends down and brushes a small mud clump off of her mother's tombstone and then runs her hand along the edges of my father's. Next she kisses her finger tips and touches little Lucy's stone. I hear the cling of her tears hitting it.

"Sweet little Lu." She whispers in an almost inaudible voice.

I remember the last time I heard Lucy's voice. It was on the phone, she was as happy and cheerful as ever and said that she would see Edmund and me in an hour when the train was set to come in. The train that would never reach it's destination safely.

A little ways off from us, there is a middle-aged widow placing a bouquet of red roses on her husband's grave. Looking over at us, she takes a single rose that has fallen out of the bunch and brings it over to Susan.

"Something for the ones you've lost." She says in a compassionate way, handing the rose to her.

Susan thanks her and takes the rose over to the stones. She examines each stone and hesitates with the rose, trying to decide which one to put it on. She settles on Edmund's stone and lays the rose on top of it. "For the poet."

The air gets a little colder and I take off my jacket and put it around her shoulders. I put my arm around her and pull her closer to me, kissing her on the forehead. "Ready to go?"

"Yes." She seems contented in a gloomy way. This is the first time she has ever visited their graves. In the past, I have always gone alone.

Usually I like to go in the autumn and watch the gold, orange, and red leaves fall around the mounds. There is something reassuring about that sight; maybe it is because the are the colours that remind me of Aslan's mane.

We get back in the car and at first I fully intend to drive us straight back to the clinic but then I hear a slight rumbling growl.

"Was that the car or your stomach?" I laugh, glancing over at her.

She smiles at me. "How much longer do we have?"

"I don't know." I admit sadly. "It's only been about forty-five minutes at most."

She nods. "I see."

"You're hungry." I say, changing the subject. I do not want to talk about losing her again.

She shrugs. "Maybe a little."

I pull into the parking lot of the first restaurant we pass and we go in, holding hands.

A waiter with a white cloth napkin draped over his right shoulder carrying a stack of brown-and-white menus asks if he can help us.

"Table for two?" I ask.

He nods rapidly and grabs two more menus (I am not sure what was wrong with the other ten he already had on his person) and leads us to a table with a booth.

I tell her to order anything she wants and not to worry about the price. She points out that I don't have much money to toss around and says she'll just order something small. We make silly jokes about the menu for nearly twenty minutes before we finally settle on what to order.

During the meal, we talk about everything. And by everything, I mean everything. Including-but not limited to-Narnia and even a bit about Aslan. We tease each other and flirt and somehow are able to bounce back and forth from that to being dead serious without missing a beat.

After the meal, I spurge for coffee just so we can hold the table and talk for a little longer. Neither of us wants this to end. When it is over, we will have no choice but to allow ourselves to remember the truth; that she could slip away at any moment.

We linger until our coffee cups are bone dry and I can no longer afford refills. Then we leave the same way we came in and get back in the car.

She doesn't speak to me, she just stares out the window. I realize this is because she is crying and doesn't want me to see.

"Susan, are you alright?" I ask, fully prepared to pull over if I have to.

She shakes her head. "I don't want to forget again."

"We'll make it work." I try to comfort her, taking one hand off the wheel and putting it on her back. "I wont leave you, you know that."

"I don't want us to go back to being Paul and Jennifer." She says, not bothering to wipe the remaining tears away. "I don't want to lose everything again. I don't want to leave you."

"I know." I rub her back consolingly, making sure to still keep my eyes on the road.

My heart pounds as we pull into the staff lot. Anyone who doesn't have the night shift might be leaving and see us. I drive slowly and carefully, trying to park the car exactly as it was before.

After we climb back in through the window, shutting and locking it tightly, I breathe a sigh of relief. "We made it."

She looks at the clock. "Nearly four hours."

This is the longest she has ever stayed with me. A mere two hours is usually far too much to hope for. As of lately, five blessed minutes has been nothing short of a miracle.

We stand in silence for a few moments before she pulls me to her and starts kissing me. "I love you, Peter." She whispers in-between kisses.

"I love you, too." I put my arms around her waist and we lean back against the wall.

For a long time all we do is kiss but then I let my hands wander a bit. She doesn't try to stop me; rather, she starts to unbutton my shirt.

I rest my forehead against her's and suddenly I sense something is wrong. She looks at me with a bewildered expression. After all these years, I know what that look means. She doesn't know who I am.

"Why are you touching me like that?" She gasps in a frightened voice, shoving me away. "Who are you? Do I know you? Why is your shirt open?"

I quickly button it up again but in such a haste that I get some of them in the wrong holes.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" She demands taking as many steps back as the wall will let her.

"Susan?" I try, even though I know it's hopeless.

"Who's Susan?"

"You're Susan." I reach into my pocket and pull out the golden chess piece. "I'm Peter."

Her hand shakes as if she is frightened that I am going to grab onto her wrist the second she reaches out for the chess piece. In spite of her skittishness, she is quick as lighting and soon has it in the palm of her hand.

"Where did you get this?" Her voice quivers.

"Narnia." I say.

She runs her fingers along it but this time it doesn't seem to jog any memories. Looking back at me she demands to know what I am doing there.

"I love you." I blurt out. I just want to say it one last time today.

"I don't know you." She decides, loosening her grip on the chess piece, letting it fall down onto the floor.

My eyes stray from her to the clock. Five hours. She lasted five hours this time. She tried so hard to stay with me.

She let's out a scream. The nurse and Carrie rush in and are instantly at her side, inadvertently kicking the chess piece under the bed.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" The nurse asks her.

She doesn't answer, she just sobs into her hands.

"Paul," Carrie says in a pained voice. "It's time for you to go now."

I grab the journal and leave. I have lost track of how many times I have cried today. The sun has set and it's dark in the hallway except for the light coming from the monitors and televisions in some of the rooms with open doors. My blood-shot eyes give away the events of that evening, everyone who sees me knows; she remembered and forgot again.

When I reach my room, I take off my shoes and sit on the bed. Turning on the lamp on my bedside table, I open the journal to the first page:

_Peter,_

_Read this to her and she'll come back to you._

_-Edmund_

Behind my now closed eyelids, I recall the last time I saw the poet who wrote the journal.

* * *

The crash had been so sudden. One moment there was screaming and panic and a train moving towards them too fast-flying off the track. The next thing Peter felt was a shove and then the crash itself. In the smoke and heat, he heard a cough. Lifting up his head he could see Edmund covered in gray ashes; his eyes were still half way open. He wasn't dead yet.

"Ed!" Peter crawled over to him ignoring the stinging pain he felt on the right side of his body. He lifted his brother-in-law up the best he could with his aching arms. "Are you alright?"

With nearly all the strength he could muster, Edmund shook his head. "Peter..." He croaked. "I have to tell you something."

"There will be time enough for that later." Peter said, trying to pull him completely out of the rubble he was still half-buried under.

"No...there wont...I'm sorry..." Edmund's voice grew a little fainter.

"Edmund..."

"Please, listen to me." He lifted his arms up and grabbed onto Peter's coat to make sure he had his full attention. "In my bedroom, there's a small leather-bound journal, it's in my sock drawer. Got that?"

Peter nodded.

"Good." Edmund continued, fighting to keep his eyes open. "Don't forget. It's very important. I promised Susan..." He took a deep raspy breath. "I promised Susan that I would tell you about it when the time was right."

Tears streamed down Peter's face.

"You read it to her, okay?" Edmund asked.

"Okay." Peter managed in a choked up voice. "Ed..."

"Oh and Peter?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For everything and anything wrong I ever did to you-I know you'll take good care of my sister and I want you to know how much that means to me. You're a good king, Peter. A good high king and a wonderful brother. Please don't ever forget tha..." Edmund's eyes closed and his head limped over to one side.

* * *

I pull the covers over my head and say goodnight to no one except myself and my memories.


	13. Pneumonia

In the middle of the night, I am awakened suddenly by my own body shivering violently. At first I assume I am cold because I have simply kicked the covers off of myself while sleeping. I reach over the bed-feeling surprisingly dizzy-expecting to feel the fallen sheets near my hand. When my hand touches nothing but air, I realize that all of my blankets are still on me. Before I can begin wonder what's wrong me, I have already fallen back into a fitful sleep-a complete blackness with no dreams.

The next time my eyes spring open it is shortly before sunrise. This time it's not because I'm too cold but because I'm too hot. I reach up and put my hand to my forehead which feels much warmer than it should. I kick off my blankets but don't feel any better-it doesn't seem to make even the slightest difference.

My chest feels sort of heavy as though it is filled with buckets of water, I feel I like I am drowning from the inside out. Did it always take this much effort just to breathe? To take one little breath? Have I always sounded so raspy and faint?

The sun is beginning to rise and so is my temperature. My throat feels like it is closing on me and beads of sweat are running down from my forehead to my cheeks and rolling off of my chin onto my neck. Something is wrong, I have to get up now, right now. I need help.

The feeling of standing still lasts less than a minute before the room starts spinning. I can't move with everything around me whirling like this. I start coughing and red spots appear on the brown carpet below me.

Blood, I realize, I'm coughing up blood.

My feet wont hold me up anymore. I can't take it, it hurts. It really, really, hurts. I fall down flat on my face. In my delirium, I have knocked myself mostly unconscious. I can't think clearly anyway so the blackout is reasonably welcome. My last thoughts before the dark veil of my eyelids shuts me off from the world are of my brother-in-law and of my wife. I wonder if dying in that crash put Edmund in as much pain as I am in now and I wonder what Susan will do without me. What if I am dying? The nurses will look after her, I'm sure of that, but who will read to her? Who will be there to make sure she remembers? I guess it's in Aslan's paws now.

I suppose my fall made a bit of a racket and alerted the staff that something in this room is amiss because now I can distantly near the door creaking open.

"Mr. Pevensie?" I think that voice belongs to Della-she was the first nurse I said good morning to yesterday.

"Oh god!" Another voice-Carrie's, I think.

"Carrie, call the doctor." Della orders, rushing to my side. "Mr. Pevensie, can you hear me?"

I can hardly breathe, my breath seems even more labored than it was before. My chest is too heavy to lift. Answering her is impossible even if I can hear her.

The next thing I feel are strong arms lifting me up onto a stretcher.

Funny, I think, I don't remember hearing it get wheeled in.

"He's not breathing." Carrie's voice is bordering on hysterical.

I sense that there is something of a crowd around me now. Unknown to me, several of the patients who know me have come out of their rooms to see if I'm alright. Most of the staff is there too. I hear some crying and some choked up gasps.

I feel fingers in my mouth-very unpleasant-someone is prying it open and pouring something in. I can't help but think of little Lucy and her magic cordial that she had when she was a Queen in Narnia. In my confused state, I am half convinced it actually is Lucy hovering above me, struggling to get me breathing again. I've fallen down in battle, I must have. I remember seeing blood; something must have hit me. But the stuff being poured into my mouth doesn't taste like cordial, it tastes more like the normal, unmagical, medicine of England. Oh, I understand now! This isn't Narnia, Lucy's gone, Edmund's gone, the train crash! The paramedics have pulled me out from under the rubble and pried my dead brother-in-law's body out of my arms and now they're rushing me to the hospital. No, no, no, that's happened already. That's in the past! Hang it all, why can't I recall the present? What's wrong with me? Are my eyes starting to open or am I just imagining it? I think I am floating-is that possible?

I'm not actually floating. I understand now that the stretcher is being wheeled to another part of the clinic.

My eyes are half-way open and I can see a little even if it is mostly a blur. I cough and cough, harder and harder shaking my whole body. About a pound of phlegm shoots out of my mouth. I'm breathing again, not well, but at least I can feel my throat going up and down and my heavy chest with it.

"He's breathing again." Carrie sounds relieved.

"Not well." Della adds, her blurry expression strikes me as rather grave.

"Wait, to get him to emergency care, don't we have to pass...?" Carrie's voice trails off.

"Oh, dear lord." Della whimpers. "Please let that door be closed. Don't let her see him like this."

Her door is closed but then it swings open. With all the strength I can muster up at the last minute, I turn my head to look.

"Sweetie, come back in here." Her nurse begs.

She doesn't listen, curiosity and maybe even a little bit of fear has compelled her to stand in the open door way and watch the sick man be wheeled by. I wonder what she is thinking and feeling, seeing me now. What would she think differently if she still remembered me; what changes in her thoughts might have effected this scene?

Her expression is full of concern. "Who is that? What's happened to him?"

"Come along, dear." The nurse nudges her back into the room and I am granted one last sighting of her face peering back at me over her shoulder before the door is gently closed behind her.

* * *

Susan Pevensie tried to wipe away the last of her tears, praying that Peter would already be asleep; she didn't want to see him like this. She didn't want to have to explain want was wrong. Oh no, she couldn't take that, not now. She fumbled though her purse, searching for her house key with trembling hands before it occurred to her that Peter wouldn't have locked it. He always left the door open for her when she stayed out late. Both he and Lu were morning persons while she and Ed were night owls using the dark unlit time to think, hope, worry, and dream.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped onto the porch. Instantly, the light flicked on and there was Edmund sitting on the roughly-cushioned porch swing. His notebook was on his lap but he hadn't written more than three lines. Why on earth he had been sitting there in the dark, Susan couldn't guess.

She put her hand to her heart. "Oh, Ed, you scared me!"

"Where have you been?" Edmund demanded, his dark eyebrows sinking deeply into his forehead.

"You know where I was." Susan said quickly, hoping to ward off any more questions.

"You weren't at Janet's party. I know you weren't, you know you weren't, so let's drop this little lie, shall we?" He sounded more concerned than angry but his tone was very curt all the same.

"How did you find out?" Susan asked wearily.

"I have a source." Edmund said dryly as Susan came further in under the porch light.

Susan bit her lower lip hard until she suddenly tasted blood in her spit and stopped.

"Su?" Edmund gasped, noticing the red-rings around her eyes for the first time. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Susan lied.

"Nothing?" Edmund didn't believe that.

"Nothing!" Susan practically shouted at him. "I'm fine, alright?" Tears streamed down her cheeks and she took a seat next to him on the swing.

"What happened?" Edmund asked her as she wept into the palm of her hands. "Where were you?"

"I was at the doctors." Susan finally mumbled.

"What?" Edmund clearly hadn't expected this.

"I didn't want anyone to know...so I asked for the latest possible appointment...I made sure it was during the party so none of you would worry about me..." She broke down sobbing again.

"Why were you at the doctors?" Edmund asked gently. "Are you ill?"

"Not physically." Susan said, wiping a few tears away with the back of her hand. "I've been diagnosed with a mental disorder, Ed."

Edmund felt his jaw drop half-way open and his blood drain from his face. "You, what?"

"Please don't tell anyone!" Susan pleaded, grabbing onto her little brother, and looking at him desperately.

"Why not?" Edmund asked.

"I don't want anyone to know!" Susan cried.

"What about Peter? You aren't going to tell him?"

Susan shook her head.

"Su, this isn't something you can keep from him." Edmund reminded her. "This is serious."

"Don't you think I know that?" Susan wailed piteously. "I know he'll have to find out eventually but I don't want him to know right now. He'll act different around me, you know he will."

"He wont." Edmund insisted. "He loves you."

"And that's exactly why he wouldn't look at me the same." Susan said, pulling her feet up onto the swing with the rest of her body. "You know how protective he is, Edmund. You've seen him with Lucy. If he found out about this he'd be more over-protective than ever."

"How much do you know about this disorder anyway?" Edmund wanted to know.

"Not much." Susan admitted, glancing up at the humming bug zapper as it killed a fly. "I have to go to a specialist next week."

"I'm coming with you." Edmund said firmly.

"Edmund, no..." Susan started to protest.

"If you don't let me come, I'm telling Peter so he can go with you." Edmund warned her.

"That's blackmail." Susan pouted.

"That's life." Edmund refused to back down.

"Fine." Susan gave in, folding her arms across her chest. "You can come."

"It's late, we should turn in." Edmund said, standing up.

Susan nodded. "I'll be right in, I just need a few more minutes to think."

* * *

Breathing has finally becoming somewhat easy again and my eyes open all the way. It must be hours since the last time they opened. I am hooked up to an IV. Darn it, I am in the hospital unit of the building. I've never had to be here before and I am glad of it. I hate it now. I want to be allowed out of here. I wonder what happened anyway. The morning is pretty much just one big blur; I have pretty much no idea what I actually went through or why.

Doctor Chuck walks in. "Peter, you're awake."

"Hullo, Doctor Chuck." I croak in a raspy voice.

"We were really worried about you." He tells me.

"What happened?" I blink in the bright lighting of the white room. I reach up with one of my hands and feel my forehead it's not burning but it's not as cool as it ought to be.

"You had a bad case of Pneumonia." He explains gravely, jotting something down on his clip board. "It almost killed you."

"How long have I been asleep?" I ask wearily.

"A couple of days at least." Dr. Chuck says grimly, looking up from the clipboard, back at me.

"Days?" I exclaim as loudly as my aching throat will let me. My stomach hurts, I realize.

He nods. "Sorry, Peter."

I wonder what Susan has been up to these during the time I was asleep and if I, even as an unknown man, have been in her thoughts and prayers.

"I heard about what happened." He says, taking a seat in a chair by my hospital bedside. "I heard you got her to remember."

"Yes." I smile at the memory of her face when she said my name.

"I'm sorry you didn't get your miracle." He says softly, implying that he knows that she slipped away again.

"I did." I tell him.

"I don't understand..." He looks very confused.

"I got to spend five perfect hours with the love of my life." I reminded him. "If that's not a miracle, I don't know what is."

"You two amaze me, you know that?" Dr. Chuck says in a tone of complete awe. "I've seen disorders like her's tear couples apart. I've seen their pain...but I've never seen anyone handle it like you do. How do you do it? How do you make it day in and day out?"

"I'm not sure." I don't over-play it or try to make it seem like it's not a big deal, because it is. I'm not sure how to explain it.

He nods. "I see."

"Will I be alright?" I ask.

"I think you'll pull through, give it a few more days."

I sigh and lean my head back on the pillows propped up behind me. I am lonely, I miss my wife.


	14. The art of being lonely

I spend most of the day staring up at the ceiling listening to the occasional beeping of the monitors in the room (I'm not actually hooked up to any of them but for some reason they are turned on anyway). I let my thoughts wander, thinking of everything until I decide it's best to just leave it all a blank. It isn't as if there's anything I can do until I've fully recovered anyway, I might as well take it easy. Thinking of nothing means I don't have to think about her and not thinking about her means I don't have to feel as lonely.

"Mr. Pevensie, you have a visitor." A nurse who's name I haven't learned because she is quiet and does not wear a name tag says.

Visitor? I think, who would visit me? Maybe Harold and Alberta? Perhaps one of the staff if they are off of their shift? I know who I want it to be, more than anything, but I don't get my hopes up. It isn't her. She hasn't come, they wouldn't let her.

I hear a slight wheezing sound and some gruff muttered cursing which is followed by the squeak of a wheel chair behind pushed. It's Bert Poble.

"Hullo, Bert." I managed to croak.

I think the corners of his mouth almost turned up; now that's a miracle in itself! In the eight years I've been living in the clinic, he's never been without at least a slight scowl.

"Hullo, Peter." He says shortly but not unkindly. "How are you holding up?"

"Well they wont let me die." I wink at him.

"They had better not." He grumbles, his usual frown returning but with no real anger directed towards me. "Who's going to bug the living daylights out of me every dang morning if you go?"

"Aw, you'll miss my hassling." I'm touched.

"Well, you amuse me." He shrugs his shoulders. "You're the only person around here that doesn't act like this clinic is a darned morgue."

Coming from him, this strikes me as a tad hypocritical but he's not the sort of person you can hold things against (in spite of his gruff way of speaking, he's harmless) and I know he means it as a compliment.

"So," I say conversationally. "How is everyone?"

"Fine." He says monosyllabically.

" _Everyone's_ fine?" That wasn't exactly the answer I was looking for.

"A heck of a lot better than you are right now." He snaps, cursing under his breath as the plaid lap-blanket he has on his knees starts to slip a little and he has to reach down and adjust it.

"How's...um...Alice?" I can't flat out ask my real question.

"Miss Rosie is fine." He rolls his eyes. "Now why don't you cut the crud and flat out ask me if I know anything about how your wife is doing?"

He's not an idiot and is insulted that I didn't just say what I wanted to in the first place. "Fine, how is she?"

His eyes widen. "How the heck should I know? Do I look like a doctor to you?"

I smile and shake my head. "You're a piece of work, Bert."

"You get well soon, you infuriating little scamp." He winks at me and actually grants me a small smile-a real one-before turning to leave. "I'd better get going before them idiots realize I'm gone. Wont let me die in peace, none of them." He mutters something else and then wheels himself away.

I like Bert.

* * *

"Edmund, stop that." Susan hissed, pulling a wooden tongue depressor out of her brother's hand.

Edmund had been fidgeting with it out of nervousness and was more than a little irritated when she snatched it away from him. "Hey!"

"What are you, five?" Susan snapped, too anxious about the awaited results of the tests the specialist had just had run on her to be her usual composed self.

Edmund stuck out his tongue at her rather childishly.

"Thanks by the way." Susan mumbled a few seconds later, glancing up worriedly at the ticking clock-how long was it going to take the doctor to get back with those results? It felt like forever.

"For what?" Edmund asked.

"For not telling Peter about this." Susan said softly.

"I still think you should." Edmund reminded her.

"I know." Susan sighed. "I just can't, Ed."

"What do you mean, 'can't'?" Edmund wanted to know.

"I mean, I really can't tell him." She said, glancing up as the minute hand on the clock moved just slightly. "Last night, I almost made up my mind to but then...I just couldn't...I opened my mouth to tell him and he was there just waiting to hear whatever it was I was going to say...I just froze up..."

"He's going to find out eventually, Su." Edmund pointed out. "Don't you think he'd rather hear it from you now than from someone else later?"

"Well, maybe he doesn't have to know at all." Susan came up with, knowing how stupid it sounded but unable to stop herself from saying it anyway. "I mean, yes it's a mental disorder, it's not a good thing but there must be some sort of treatment...right?"

"Susan Pevensie, you are going to have to tell your husband about this, there is no way around it." Edmund said sternly.

Susan opened her mouth to protest when suddenly the door swung open and the doctor came back in. He looked tired and his clothes where slightly ruffled. He smiled at them weakly as he pulled out another chair and took a seat in front of them, placing a neat stack of papers on his desk to the left of him.

"So how bad is it?" Edmund asked.

The doctor rubbed his eyes with his thumb, cleaned his glasses, and cleared his throat before saying, "I am so very sorry."

Susan winced. She didn't like the sound of that.

"Sorry about what?" Edmund felt very uneasy and struggled to remain calm.

The doctor hung his head. "About what this is probably going to put her through." He reached onto the desk, picked up some of the papers and handed half of them to Edmund and the other half to Susan.

"What does all this gibberish mean?" Edmund asked, pointing to a graph he didn't quite understand on one of the papers.

"It means her disorder is irreversible." The doctor said gravely. "Some mental disorders can be treated and kept reasonably under control before they cause any permanent damage. In the case of what your sister has, Edmund, it is very different. This disorder is rare-somewhat more common in females although males cases of it are not unheard of-and there is very little we can do about it."

Susan looked like she might burst into tears at any given moment. Edmund remained calm on the outside but inside his head, his thoughts were whirling at the speed of light.

"People suffering from her case of it, tend to have extreme confusion and more often than not, memory loss." The doctor continued. "It often starts with the afflicted person mixing up details of their life. They may imagine that parts-sometimes years-of their childhood and sometimes adolescence was only a game or a dream. They may be prone to sudden moments of complete memory loss from time to time-eventually it all goes until they don't even know who they are most of the time."

Edmund gulped, realizing that this had already started in Susan. She had referred to Narnia as, 'Such a funny little game we all played' only last week, making Lucy cry. Peter had been upset with her. They all thought she was being difficult, they didn't know the real reason behind it.

"How long does the progression from some memory to almost none take?" Susan asked bravely, ready to find out how much time she had left.

"It varies from person to person." The doctor told her. "For some it could take years for others...less..."

"I see." Susan whispered, fiddling with the wedding ring on her finger.

"Now, we do have some partially good news." The doctor said, forcing a smile. "In your case, as long as you avoid extreme shock of any kind, you could have several more years before it progresses into the final stages. Mostly because you've started to develop it as such a young age."

"Well that's good, I guess..." Susan said, blinking back the tears coming up into her eyes again.

"What happens if she _does_ get a shock of some kind?" Edmund asked, warily.

"Her mind could shift instantly into a mental decline in which she would forget everything...like that..." He snapped his fingers.

Susan didn't respond. What would it be like to lose everything in the blink of an eye? When would it happen to her? Tomorrow or when she was eighty? She hated the uncertainty; the fact that she as unable to make logical sense out of it and pin point an exact time.

Looking over at his sister, who seemed unable to take her eyes off of the ring on her finger now, Edmund knew what she was most afraid of losing. If only there was some way to help her. He promised himself that if there was a way, he would find it.

* * *

During the next few days, I learn from Carrie how my wife is doing. She seems lost, they tell me; she sits in a rocking chair most of the day, looking out the window.

"She's found some small object...it looks like a little horse-head..." Carrie tells me. "She always has it in her hands."

"Is she eating enough?" I ask.

"It depends on what you mean by _enough_." Carrie winces, knowing that her answer is not going to go over well with me. "She doesn't seem to have much of a will to do anything except just sit in her rocking chair, with a little encouragement, we can usually get her to eat lunch and sometimes supper but she's been impossible at breakfast."

"Has she said anything?" I want to know.

Carrie shakes her head. "It's almost as if she's become mute. I haven't heard her voice for nearly two days now. She just shakes her head no when she doesn't want something and nods when she does."

"I want to see her." I say, sitting up a little straighter in my bed.

"I know, Peter." Carrie says consolingly. "I know how much you miss her but you can't leave here until the doctor releases you back into the other part of the clinic."

"That's not what I was suggesting." I tell her.

Carrie looks at me as if I have suddenly grown five heads. "I hope you are not implying that we should bring her here to see you."

I shrug. "I don't see why not."

"We can't." Carrie insists. "Rules are rules."

"I hate rules." I mutter, closing my eyes and leaning back on the pillows behind me.


	15. Together Again

Finally, nearly a week later, I am allowed back into my old room-the one I've been living in for eight years. Unfortunately for me, it is almost eight at night when I am finally released and they tell me it is too late for me to go see her. Rather sullenly, I sit down in a chair and look out the window, it is a beautiful moon tonight; almost full but not quite and it's closer to a golden-orange than it is to its usual white. A harvest moon, I think. I can't sleep; I hear the wind howling outside and I can hear the footsteps of the staff-things that never bothered me before are sending shivers up my skin as if someone is scraping nails along a chalk board.

Mostly though, it is a deep empty feeling that is keeping me up. I feel like everyone I ever cared about has gone and left me. Edmund and Lucy are gone-taking my cousin, father, and the only mother I have ever known with them, and my wife doesn't even remember my name. Usually, I can fight depression, push it away because I'm simply too busy to deal with it, just haven't got the time. Now though, I do feel depressed. I've known for a long time that I might have to spend the rest of my life here but it isn't until now that the full realization has hit me. I can't cure her nor can I leave her; I am stuck. Part of me wishes I had died in that accident along with the others but then I think of Susan all alone with only the occasional visits from Harold and Alberta and I shudder. I wouldn't wish that on anyone; I am glad Edmund saved me-for her sake.

My thoughts are interrupted a few hours later by whimpering. Real, honest to goodness, whimpering. I look around the room but I don't see anyone.

"Who's there?" I blurt out, standing up.

It is coming from outside in the hallway. I open the door and peer out. My heart actually skips a beat from delighted surprise. Only a few doors down from me, I can make out the shape of a slim, dark-haired, young woman sitting down on the cold tile floor fiddling with a small object she is holding in the palms of her hands.

"Ahem." I cough.

She looks startled but not as timid as I expected she might be. I watch as she gets up and walks over to my doorway. She squints at my face in the darkness, "Um, hullo."

"Are you alright?" I ask gently.

She shakes her head. "No..."

"What's wrong?" I am so happy to see her that I have to fight back a smile in order to look genuinely concerned.

"I was looking for the owner of this..." She shows me the little gold chess knight. "And I got lost."

"Are you sure it isn't yours?" I raise an eyebrow at her.

She nods. "I haven't got a solid gold chess set." She actually laughs a little at the absurdity of the question.

"Well who does?" My voice is nearly a whisper now.

"Do I know?" She looks at me with complete bewilderment.

"Yes, think hard." I tell her.

She shakes her head and for a moment I think I ought to just say, "It's mine, thanks for returning it." and then escort her right back to her room. It would be the right thing to do-certainly what the nurses would expect of me-but I don't want her to go yet; I haven't seen her in over a week.

Suddenly much to my great surprise her facial expression changes completely. She looks at me differently and says, "Edmund, he had a golden chess set."

"And who's Edmund?" I ask, hardly daring to believe what I am hearing.

"My brother." She tells me.

I risk it all. "Susan, do you know who I am?"

She stares at me blankly for a moment before throwing herself into my arms, "Peter!"

She's come back! This time, all on her own. I don't know how long it is going to last but I am so happy I can't think of anything to say; I'm completely tongue-tied.

"Peter, I've missed you so much." She whispers, letting go of me slightly and coming all the way into the room.

I glance back at the open door. The staff is not going to be too happy about what I do next; I close the door behind us.

"You can't imagine how much I've missed you." I say when my voice finally returns to me.

She sits on the bed and pulls me down next to her, kissing me gently.

For the first time in eight years, I can actually guess what is going to happen next.

* * *

Susan was sitting on the porch swing by herself with her feet up looking out into the hazy twilight as the last rays of sunlight slipped away. Peter, Lucy, her stepfather, and her mother had all gone out somewhere together and Susan had asked to stay behind. Edmund would have gone with them but he was busy with something up in his room and refused to come down.

"Su?" Edmund walked onto the porch carrying something small and brown in his hands.

"Hey, Ed." She said quietly, looking at him briefly without moving her head. "And no, I haven't told him yet."

Edmund shrugged. "That's what I thought."

"I will though..." Susan said decidedly. "I have to...just not today...soon though..."

"I have something for you." Edmund told her, taking a seat on the swing beside her.

"What is it?" Susan asked in surprise, crinkling her forehead.

Edmund handed her the small brown object; it was a leather bound journal.

"A journal?" Susan blinked at up him in confusion.

"I got it from my room in Narnia." Edmund explained, hoping she wouldn't jump up and leave because he said that word. She didn't. "I wrote something in it."

"Poetry?" Susan guessed.

Edmund shook his head and let out a slight chuckle. "Not this time."

"Well, what is it then?" Susan asked, in a tone of wonder.

"It's about you and Peter." Edmund said with a little bit of smirk coming onto his face.

"That's really sweet, Ed." Susan said nicely, not quite understanding why he had written it but willing to be grateful all the same.

"It's so that when you forget, he can read it to you." Edmund explained, opening the journal to the front page. "I know why this disorder is upsetting to you. You don't want to lose what you have with him, this way you wont."

Tears sprang up in Susan's eyes and she kissed her little brother on the cheek. "Oh, Edmund, thank you!"

"But you have to do your part too." Edmund warned her.

"My part?" Susan echoed.

"Write a letter to him, say anything you would want him to know if you couldn't remember him, then give it to me. I'll slip it in the binding for him to find later." Edmund told her.

"I will." Susan promised.

* * *

Morning comes all too soon. I am used to waking up early but I feel very different this morning because for the first time, there's someone sleeping on the other side of the bed, snoring softly.

Kissing her on the forehead, I get up and put on my clothes. The sun has just risen, filling the room with a warm golden light-it's going to be a beautiful day, the sky is already the brightest blue you can imagine.

I don't know if she will still know who I am when she wakes up and a new thought occurs to me: What will she think waking up in here? What if she doesn't remember me or what we did last night? I don't want her to feel embarrassed because she's naked. Gently and carefully, without waking her up, I slip one of my larger shirts-one I use for sleeping-over her head. Peeling back the covers just slightly, I pull it all the way down so it covers most of her. There, problem solved. Next I put the blankets back over her so that she's not cold.

There isn't much I can do in this room but there is a mini-stove with a kettle that I use to make tea sometimes. I decide to make her a cup so that she'll have something hot to drink when she wakes up. I try to go about doing so as quietly as possible but when it's ready, the kettle whistles and she awakens with a start. Her eyes widen when she notices me.

"Good morning." I say, with a smile.

"Where am I?" She rubs her eyes and sits up.

"Home." I shrug.

"Oh?" She crinkles her forehead and looks around.

"Well we live here." I explain, feeling more than a little disappointed that she's gone again. "Or at least I do, this isn't your room."

"Then what am I doing here?" She wants to know. "And who are you exactly?"

"Oh, you just got lost." No need to make up excuses when the truth makes perfect sense. "So I let you stay here."

"Well that was very nice of you, I guess." She says, sitting up in the bed.

"Tea?" I offer, lifting the kettle up a bit to show her.

"Sure." She says, relaxing a bit now that her circumstances don't seem as startling.

I pour some in a mug and hand it to her. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I'm sorry, what's your name again?" She looks at me apologetically.

"Paul." I sigh, taking a seat beside her.

"So if this is your room...where's mine?" She asks me.

"I'll show you where it is when you've finished your tea." I tell her.

"Thank you." She finishes it in one last gulp and hands the mug back to me.

I place it down on the dresser. "Whenever you're ready."

She gets up slowly and then suddenly withdraws back into the bed.

I understand. "Here." I say, handing her the dressing-gown she had on over her nightdress last night. "You can wear it over the shirt."

"Thanks." She breaths a sigh of relief.

Please don't ask me why you're not wearing underpants, I think.

She gets up and pulls it around herself, I look away, and she doesn't seem as tense. Not knowing who I am she doesn't want me looking at her when she isn't fully covered.

Next we start walking back down the hallway-it's still early so not that many people are up and visiting hours have not started yet-and head back toward her room. Suddenly, I realize the staff is going to kill me. They must be furious with me for not bringing her back to her room the second I spotted her in the hallway.

Carrie sees us first. "Oh, thank god, there you are."

Her nurse comes out of the room and puts her hand to her heart. "There she is, we were worried sick."

Susan smiles at them. "Paul was very nice, he let me stay with him because I got lost."

"Heh..." I turn a little red and a guilty smile creeps up onto my face.

"Come inside and have some breakfast." The nurse says to Susan, leading her back in the room.

"You," Carrie points to me. "You are in big trouble with us." She grabs onto my arm and leads to into the staff lounge where a bunch of scowling workers glare at me.

"Hi." I say rather pathetically, waving at them.

"Sit!" One of them growls at me.

I sit down as quickly as possible, plopping down on one of the empty chairs.

"Peter, do you have any idea how worried we were?" Carrie demands. "We didn't know where she was."

"I'm sorry, it's just..." I lean forward a little and shoot them a pleading look, hoping to gain a little sympathy. "I hadn't seen her in so long and I missed her..."

"That is not an excuse." Della barks at me.

"She remembered who I was." I say quietly.

"Peter, we are sorry about what you and your wife have to go through, you know we are but that doesn't mean you can just jump around the rules as if they weren't there." They tell me.

"I like to think of them as more of suggestions." I try.

Their glares harden. They are too worked up for my humor right now.

"And in addition to that, would you care to explain why she was wearing one of your shirts when you finally decided to bring her back?" Carrie asks sharply.

"That's none of your business!" I snap at her.

"You slept with her, didn't you?" Carrie says flat out.

"If I did, why would I announce it in front of the whole staff?" I hiss, feeling very uncomfortable.

"Peter, what were you thinking?" Della shakes her head.

"I spent the night with my wife, how will I ever get over the guilt?" I sneer sarcastically, really wishing they would stop treating me like a teenager.

"Mr. Pevensie, I strongly suggest you look over the contract you signed when you moved in here." One of the head staff says shortly. "Another offence like this one and we may have to take action."

"I'm sorry for scaring you, I didn't meant to do that." I say finally. "She's never come to me before."

"If she comes again, make sure she gets back to her room, alright?" Carrie says more gently now that I have apologized for worrying them,

I walk back into my room to get the leather bound journal. Just like any other day, I still plan to read to her. I accidentally drop it and bend down to pick it up. I have dropped and picked it up many times over the last eight years but it isn't until this time that I see something new. There is a rolled up piece of paper sticking out of the binding.


	16. Fear doesn't end love

What is that? I think, pulling the little paper all the way out.

There is a tiny piece of unraveling brown string holding the note-it must be a note; no one would bother to bind blank paper-closed and I gently peel it off feeling like my fingers are on fire. I don't know what to expect or why it's there. It is a wonder that I've never seen it before. It is sort of aged-an almost yellow colour because it must have been hidden in there for quite a while-and I work carefully at unfolding it once I have removed the string; a little frightened that I will tear it by mistake.

As soon as I see the first words, my eyes fill up with tears. It says, 'Dear Peter' and I recognize the handwriting. My wife wrote this-she meant for me to read it.

I decide to read the letter outside on the clinic's porch-it is a beautiful day out.

_Dear Peter,_

_I am not sure how to start a letter like this...I don't know_

_exactly what I should say. I don't know if I should try_

_to keep it cheerful or if I should just be as sad as I actually feel_

_right now. I've already ruined two other letters for you because_

_I cried all over them; smearing the ink. All I know is that one day_

_you and I may be separated, not by force or by people; but by my_

_disorder. I could forget everything, you included, and that's what scares_

_me the most. I'm so sorry that I didn't tell you sooner-you still don't know_

_right now as I am writing this, I am going to tell you tonight after I have_

_finished this letter-I was just too afraid._

_I didn't mean to be and I didn't_ _want to be but I couldn't help it._

_I'm sorry I forgot about Narnia, our Narnia, I can just barely recall it_

_except at night in my dreams sometimes. Edmund assures me it was real_

_and it really scares me that I don't know it for sure on my own. Peter,_

_I don't even remember our wedding all that well, it's something of a blur._

_Anyway, Edmund has promised to slip this letter in the journal he's_

_written about you and me so that you can read it when I don't remember._

_I'm supposed to say anything I would want you to know if I couldn't_

_remember to tell you myself. Well, I've thought about it and I've come_

_up with what I need you to know. All I really need to say is that I love_

_you. I loved you before, I love you now, and I know that even if I forget_

_you, deep down, I will still love you then as well. Secretly, I think I've_

_always loved you, ever since you pulled the stupid stunt at the carnival_

_so we could meet. I cursed you for it then but I bless you for it now._

_You were always good to me and you've been a kind and caring_

_husband all along without fail. Yes, we've had our fights but they don't_

_matter, not in the long run. Not when it comes to the thought of losing_

_you. I love you; please forgive me when I can no longer tell you that in_

_person. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry._

_Love always,_

_Susan_

I cannot stop the stream of tears rolling down my cheeks. According to the date on the letter, she wrote this letter two years before the crash.

I remember that day, it was the day she finally told me about her mental disorder. I remember that evening watching her writing something at a desk in the corner of our bedroom, it looked like she was trying not to cry but something told me not to ask, that she didn't want me to. I saw her fold up the paper and put it away-I suppose I could have gone and looked at it but I didn't. It seemed wrong. And then, she got up and took my hands in hers and started sobbing. Then, I did ask what was wrong. She told me about her disorder, she downplayed it a lot-I think she was afraid of me being over-protective of her and she may have had good reason for that. After that, I saw to it that Lucy didn't get upset when Susan couldn't remember Narnia, I explained to her that it wasn't because she was trying to make us leave our former home behind in our hearts; that it was a medical condition that could not be changed.

For the most part, in spite of her confession, very little had actually changed. True, I was much more anxious whenever she went out alone but Edmund made sure I didn't over react and reminded me that she needed some time to herself every now and again. And it's true that she started forgetting little things here and there. What had she done with the dress she wanted do wear that day? Or, where on earth had she placed down the mail after she had taken it inside? But all and all it hadn't been too bad. Everyone forgets things and because she was so sane-most people assumed she was just absent-minded and would have never thought in a million years that she had a mental problem.

I can't say that I didn't see some signs of mental problems every now and then whenever we were alone together. Occasionally she said things that made no sense but I usually humored her anyway so that she wouldn't feel uncomfortable.

After the railway accident however, she went away completely. Hearing about what had happened had been the shock that sent her into a complete mental decline. I lost her. I lost her along with everyone else I loved. With one major difference, there was a way to get her back.

Ever so slowly, I fold up the letter; matching up the exact original creases so as not to smudge, tear, or ruin it in any way. In only one reading, it has become one of the most precious things I own. Standing up, I walk inside, back to my room; over to a draw where I keep my other treasures and open it. Mostly old black-and-white photos of myself, Susan, Edmund, Lucy, my father, and my stepmother but a few letters as well. I place Susan's last letter to me on top of all of these things and close it shut.

Looking up, my eye catches sight of the framed photograph of myself and my wife. In it, I am seventeen and she is sixteen. I honestly don't think it is a very flattering photograph of myself but it was always her favorite one. I think I look sort of silly with my hair sticking out because it needed another cut and for some reason my ears decided to look bigger than usual that day. Susan, on the other hand photographed perfectly. She is standing next to me with her arm tucked under mine smiling just slightly-a sort of Mona Lisa smile. She looks happy and content; on more than one occasion I have wondered what she was thinking about at the moment the photo was being taken.

Sighing, I go into the bathroom and check my face to make sure my eyes don't show any signs of my crying. Then I grab the journal and head for her room.

When I finally get there, I find her looking out the window with a troubled expression on her face.

I cough lightly. "Ahem."

She turns around to face me. "Hello."

"What's wrong?" I want to know.

She shakes her head. "I'm not sure."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." I see that she is somewhat wary of me and I try to speak in the tone I think is most likely to reassure her.

"I have to go." She says suddenly, getting up from her chair so quickly that she nearly falls over.

I catch her before she can land flat on her face. "Careful!"

"Sorry." She blushes and shakes her head again and I realize her expression is an almost angry one.

I wonder why she seems so annoyed by me today. Oh well, with her disorder you never know what to expect next. Some days she looks at me the way she might look at a child she is fond of while other days she looks at me like a fly she would like to swat. Confusion, will do that to a person, I suppose and I have never thought it to be her own fault-especially not now after that letter. I know that she loves me and that if she remembered, she would tell me so herself.

"Where are you going?" I ask her.

"Anywhere to get away from you." She blurts out.

I am taken aback; she has never spoken to me like this before. "Why? What did I do?"

Her expression hardens into a tight glare. "You lied to me."

"Lied to you?" I echo incredulously. "About what?"

"I saw the photographs and the letters." She tells me, folding her arms across her chest. "The ones in your bedroom."

"Wait...what?" I stammer, crinkling my forehead.

"I snuck back in there while you were out." She says, still looking absolutely furious with me. "That girl with you in all of the photographs...all of those letters...that's me, isn't it? And your name isn't really Paul; it's Peter, isn't it?"

"Yes." I admit.

"And last night...I wasn't really with you because I got lost, was I?" Tears are starting to spring up into her eyes and I fight the urge to put my arms around her and pull her close to me.

"No." I sigh, reaching out for her hand as she takes a step back before I can make contact with her.

"Why did you lie to me?" She demands tearfully.

"Because it scares you when you know." I explain softly, looking into her eyes; hoping to make her understand. "Everyday I have to help you remember me in your own way or...or you wont come back...at all."

"Stop looking at me like that!" She says sharply.

"You see?" I say. "You're scared of me now, aren't you?"

She thinks about it for a moment and then nods. "A little."

"And that's why I didn't tell you who I was."

"Still..."

"I'm sorry, Su."

She closes her eyes tightly and then opens them again. "I think you should go, Paul-I mean, Peter...whatever your name is."

I don't want to leave her but I can see the desperation in her eyes. She wants me to leave; my presence is frightening to her. Today is not a good day.

Later at lunch, I find myself at a table with Dr. Chuck who asks why I'm not with my wife.

"She figured out who I was too soon." I say rather gravely, picking at what I assume is meant to be mashed potatoes.

"I'm sorry." Dr. Chuck says kindly, breaking a piece off of his slice of bread and dipping it in a small cup of tomato sauce on his tray.

"I'll be fine." I sigh, reaching for my own slice of bread. "It's her I'm worried about." I notice the butter is just slightly out of my reach. "Can you pass the butter?"

"I heard that she remembered last night though." Dr. Chuck comments with a slight ring of humor in his voice.

Great, I think, just great. Does everyone know what my wife and I were doing last night? Why doesn't someone just use a bullhorn and shout it from the roof tops? By the Lion, why stop there? Might as well broadcast it as an announcement on the radio!

"I really am sorry, Peter." He tells me, his tone back to serious now. "I know you must hear that a lot and I know it probably doesn't make you feel any better, I just don't know what else to say."

"That's alright." I know that everyone at the clinic cares about me and doesn't like seeing me so down-hearted. "I know she still loves me; that's what matters."

Yes, that's what matters. At least for today.


	17. Take your aim

Looking out at the back-lot, I notice a group of teenagers struggling to set something up.

"Carrie?" I ask as the nurse walks by carrying a tray with two plastic cups of apple juice, six gram-crackers, and several medicine pills.

"Yes?" She stops walking but her knees keep bending signaling that for me to make it quick so she can get back to work.

"What are they doing?"

She shrugs her shoulders, accidentally tipping the tray a bit too much to the left. "Archery, I think."

I get up and help her straighten out the tray.

"Thank you." She says, breathing a short sigh of relief.

"No problem." I wave it off. "But why are they doing archery here?"

"I don't know; to amuse the elderly, I guess." She says, rolling her eyes. "They used to do this tournament thing here every year but they stopped almost a decade ago because of lack of funding; now they're back. At least, that's what the older nurses told me."

"I see." I look over as the teenagers finally stop wobbling long enough to set up the targets.

"I have to get back to work, Mr. Pevensie." Carrie reminds me.

By her formal tone and the fact that she called me 'Mr. Pevensie' I can tell she is somewhat flustered today. I can't say it's surprising. None of the patients had been doing well this morning. The man in room six was coughing up a storm, the woman in room nine had diarrhea all over the place (somehow she even got it on the ceiling), and about six people choked on their breakfast and went blue in the face. It doesn't seem like a good day for an archery tournament and with the exception of Susan, I can't imagine any of the people I know here who would actually like watching that sort of thing. Goodness knows none of them are going to be allowed to try it; they'd kill themselves for sure.

Of course it had to be archery, the sport that reminds me the most of my wife who is not exactly thrilled with me at the moment. I'm sort of surprised they didn't pick something a little tamer like say, chess. In a way though, I'm glad they didn't because chess reminds me of Edmund-he was always very good at the game.

I wander off the porch and go over to the teenagers who are now taking out the bows and arrows, placing them neatly on a fold-out table. They notice me and give me a strange look. I guess I can't really blame them. I'm obviously not part of the staff, they must know that, because all of the other staff members are hard at work and I am just sort of lounging around not doing much. Moping a little, I guess you could say.

One of them stammers something inaudible and I look to the boy closest to me for a translation.

"He asked if we could help you with something, sir." He says politely.

"Can I try?" I motion at the arrows on the table.

"Are you any good?" One of the girls in the back blurt out.

"Not really." I laugh, thinking back to the archery I had done back in Narnia at Cair Paravel. Being more of a swordsman, I was so bad with a bow that even Lucy could beat me. "I've done it before though."

"Tell you what," They say. "If you can keep an eye on this set up for a few minutes while we take a quick break-we're all exhausted-you can try it. Just try not to break anything-it comes out of our school's budget."

"Sure thing." I smile at them.

They nod and rush off. As I suspected from the start, they don't actually want to be here and are delighted at the thought of getting away for a bit while some thirty year old loser gets stuck with the duty of watching their things. I don't mind, not really. If anything, this pleases me, I have sometime to myself to think and something about feeling the bow in my hands again after all these years is strangely soothing.

"Are you sure we should take her out?" I hear a voice a little ways off say. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea."

"It's better than having her in there with all the other patients how they are right now, besides some fresh air might do her good." Another-very familiar-voice answers.

Looking over my shoulder, I see two of the nurses leading Susan out onto the porch. She takes a seat on one of the chairs there and they set out a sort of tea-time on the little table in front of her.

I understand why they are letting her out of the room today, they don't want her to be frightened by all the commotion inside and so are letting her spend an hour or so out here. Looking out, I know she notices me right away because she leans forward in her chair and squints in my direction.

At first, Della is sitting out there on the porch to keep an eye on her before she is suddenly called back in on account of Bert Poble is trying to escape again, in someone else's wheelchair no less. She hesitates for a moment then rushes inside. More staff members are needed inside and she knows I'll still be there just a few feet away anyhow.

As soon as she is out of sight, I notice Susan get up and walk off the porch, clearly interested in watching me make an idiot of myself with archery.

Pretending not to notice Susan looking at me, I line up an arrow with my bow string. I know It's not going to fly as straight as it should and that my posture is all wrong but I prepare to shoot it anyway.

"It's not going to hit the target." She says, coming up just behind me as I release the arrow and it hits the grass closer to a nearby tree.

I turn around and half-smile at her. "Hey."

"I told you it wouldn't reach." She folds her arms across her chest and raises an eyebrow at me.

"Maybe you just distracted me." I tease, knowing she's in the right.

She shakes her head at me. "I don't think so."

I line up another arrow in my bow string and look back at her sort raising both eyebrows. "Am I going to hit it this time?"

"Not a chance." She says flatly.

"Are you still mad at me?" I ask, giving her my most pathetic pleading look.

"I don't know." She says, her eyes looking distant and rather sad.

"Why?"

"Because...I'm supposed to know you and...I don't..." She looks like she might cry. "I have no idea who you are but in those letters...if that was really me..." She wipes away some tears that escape from the corners of her eyes and then forces a smile. "So, you're horrible at archery but you like it?"

Only because it reminds me of you, I think. Out loud all I say is, "Yeah, I guess so."

She stares at me long and hard. "I can't look at this anymore." She grabs onto my fingers and positions them correctly on the bow. "There, that's much better."

I prepare to take my aim.

"Don't stand like that." She blurts out.

"Huh?"

She stands with her feet apart. "Stand like I'm standing now."

"Oh." I move my feet out the right way but feel sort of awkward doing so.

"You're holding the bow too low." She points out, gently reaching over and putting her arms around me to fix the level I am holding the bow at. I have to admit, I enjoy this far more than I probably should and purposely continue holding it wrong for a full five minutes so just to keep her arms around me a little longer.

After she has gotten me straightened out, I take my aim again and this time, hit the target actually pretty close to the middle.

"You're welcome." She grins at me.

"Thanks." For a moment I almost forget what's happened to us, that she doesn't really know who I am, and actually come pretty close to kissing her before I remember and quickly make it look like all I intended to do was give her a quick thank you hug.

The teenagers come back from their break and thank me for being such a help. They notice my wife and introduce themselves, waiting for her to do the same.

"I'm sorry." She says softly in a slightly regretful tone. "I don't know my name."

Their jaws drop and their foreheads crinkle. Now they know why I live here.


	18. Depression and things that aren't there

Later that night, going back to my room after supper in the dinning hall, I hear screaming-her screaming. Her door is shut but that doesn't stop me, I simply fling it open without knocking or asking-I know I am not supposed to do that, I just don't care.

"What's wrong?" I ask, rushing into the room.

Susan's nurse looks at me with tired eyes. "Just go to your room, okay?"

I look over at my wife. She is huddled in a corner of the room; sprawled out on the floor, sitting on her own legs as she flicks her fingers out at nothing, swatting at the air. Her screams lessen and become more like loud sobs. Somehow, she has taken on another fit. This one has come suddenly and completely unexpected. Just by looking at her, I can tell she is seeing things that aren't there; she is hallucinating. This is also part of her disorder, just a part of it that doesn't occur in her as often.

"Shh..." I ignore the nurse's advice and walk over to Susan, lowering myself on the floor so I can sit next to her. "It's alright..." I reach my hand out to comfort her but she swats it away.

"Don't touch me." She snaps, her tone more frightened than bitter.

"Peter, just go." The nurse sighs, not even bothering to call me 'Paul' this time.

"No." I huff shortly before turning my attention back to Susan. "What's wrong, can you tell me?"

"They wont go away." She whimpers.

"Who wont?" I speak as though what she is saying makes perfect sense even though, obviously, it doesn't.

"The _things_." She sobs, flicking her fingers at the air again. "Ugh, how horrid!"

"Mr. Pevensie, listen to me." The nurse tries one last time. "This isn't something you can fix, it's part of the-"

"Hush!" I tell her, scooting a little closer to my wife. "I _know_ what it is."

"Can you make them go away?" Her voice is suddenly much calmer and she peers over at me eagerly with a childlike expression on her face.

Most people in that situation would have said, "No, I'm sorry, I can't." Or have insisted that she was only imagining it. I, though, decide to do neither.

"Close your eyes." I say softly.

"How will that help?" Her snappish tone is back.

"Just try it." I whisper.

"No." She doesn't want to.

"Please?"

"No."

"For me?"

That confuses her. "Who are you anyway?"

"I am someone who cares about you very much, now just do it." I say in a much more gruff tone than I would normally use with her.

She seems taken aback. "I guess I could try...but oh, the _things_..."

"Whatever they are, they can't hurt you." I assure her.

"How do you know that?" She asks, lowering her eyelids slightly but not closing them all the way; still wary of whatever unnerving presence she senses in the room.

"Because, I'm here with you now and I would never let anything happen to you." I promise, offering her my hand again.

Shaking like a leaf, her hand comes close to me and her trembling fingers interlock with mine. Her eyelids close all the way and she squeezes my hand tightly.

"Now," I say soothingly. "Don't think about whatever it is you saw. I want to you think about..." What positive image could I try to instill in her? What might help? I consider Narnia, it is our kingdom after all and we both loved it, but then decide not to use that. If memories of fauns and talking beasts come back to her but not in their entirety, it might frighten her more, not less. I come up with a better idea. "...an unused street with a traffic light...you're just watching the colours change...those _things_ aren't there, just you and me-we're safe there."

She squeezes my hand tighter still and leans her head on my shoulder; she is trying so hard to get rid of whatever it is that her mind's plaguing her with,

"I'm not strong enough." Another sob escapes her throat.

"Yes you are!" I exclaim, pulling her as close to me as I can.

"They went away." She whispers in complete awe. "How did you do that?"

"I didn't do anything." I say, resting my head lightly on her's. "All I can do is be there when you need me."

"Thank you." She sighs, pulling away.

"I love you." I risk saying, just for the sake of saying it.

I should have thought twice before saying those three words because they frighten her and she pulls away from me instantly. "I'm sorry...you're wonderful...you really are...but I don't even know you."

"Mr. Pevensie," the nurse says warningly.

"Alright, alright." I moan, getting up and leaving the room.

"You did a good thing, Peter." The nurse reassures me as I leave the room.

"Goodbye." Susan calls after me.

The next few weeks are not good ones for me or for Susan. I read the journal to her every day but not once does she regonize me or remember who she is. At the journal's open ending she simply blinks in confusion and insists I explain it to her because she doesn't get it. We are no longer Peter and Susan; we are back to being Paul and Jennifer again. She doesn't know me and I have to act like I barely know her. It hurts and sometimes the loneliness is so bad that I spend each night in deep depression, only to force myself into cheerfulness each morning so I can start anew.

Her mental decline seems to be getting worse. At least once every two days she hallucinates. First she keeps whimpering about the horrible 'Things' being after her then she insists she sees strange blurry people wandering around her room-they scare her and she wants them to go away. The first three times this happens, I am able to comfort her and talk her out of her fear. The fourth time though, she becomes apathetic and violent, slapping me hard across the face.

Examining my flaming cheek and slight black eye, the nurses decide I shouldn't be allowed to see her during the fits anymore.

I hear from a blind old man, Kurt Follow (I read the newspaper out loud to him in the evenings sometimes), who lives only two doors down from her, that she cries a lot at night. I cry sometimes, too; thinking about her all alone with her mind playing tricks on her, with no one to reassure her that everything is going to be just fine.

It becomes harder for me to sleep at night. I go to bed at almost midnight and wake up at three in the morning unable to fall back asleep. I pace my room back and forth for an hour. I think about our family who died in the car crash and about Susan. I know her room isn't that close to mine but each night I still wonder if I was to be very, very quiet, I might hear her breathing-or more likely, her crying. I read the letter I found in the journal over and over again just to remind myself that she still loves me.

Due to my nightly lack of rest, dark black rings form around the outside of my eyes. I get concerned comments from everyone. Della and Carrie urge me to take a day off from reading to her and nap. Bert Poble tells me I look like that hot scary place the devil rules over.

The little old ladies shudder when I walk by them, noticing I have started to take less care in my appearance. Really, what reason did I have anymore? I only ever kept myself up for Susan's sake and she doesn't seem to care anymore. She no longer studies my face, searching for me-the real me. Now she just sort of excepts the fact that I am a stranger. In fact, she barely looks at me at all now, not even when I read. I can sense that she is listening to my words and I do get an occasional mutter of, "I like this story, keep going." But that's about it.

Sure enough, Harold and Alberta hear about how I've been carrying on and show up to beg me to leave clinic. I tell them to shut up and slam a door in their faces. Lack of sleep, loneliness, and over-all depression, has made me a meaner person. I don't reason with people, nor do I talk to them, I've stopped caring completely. Other than my daily reading to Susan, I've even stopped visiting the other patients.

Then one night when I finally manage to sleep for longer than an hour or two, I have a dream about little Lucy. In my dream, she comes to the clinic to visit me and I ignore her completely. I don't talk to her; wont even look at her. She is horrified and bursts into tears which, for the very first time, have no effect on me; it is as if I have a heart of stone. Aslan appears behind her, opening his mouth to roar but then no sound comes out and he shuts it again, shaking his head at me sadly. I wake up with heaving sobs. I hate what I've become.

In the morning, I try to become my former self again. That person feels so far away but I am determined to bring him back even if I have to drag him kicking and screaming. I actually pay attention to my hygiene that morning and in spite of the bit of weight I have lost and the dark rings that still circle my eyes, I think I look pretty good. I greet everyone again just like I used to and the nurses breathe sighs of relief.

"It's good to have you back." Carrie says, sort of quietly.

It's good to be back, I think as I nod and force a smile.

On the way to my wife's room I notice a single white rose in a vase at the information desk. I stare at it for a moment before asking if I can have it.

I get a smile and a, "Sure, take it."

"Thank you." I pluck it out of the vase carefully in case it has thorns. It doesn't.

My knuckles rap lightly on the door and somewhat to my surprise, it is Susan that answers it, not her nurse. She doesn't seem as distant as she has been lately.

She is so beautiful and the curious smile she greets me with is so sweet that for a moment I almost forget everything. I can't help myself; I just stand there gazing at her with my head slightly tilted to the left.

"Um, hello?" She laughs nervously.

I snap back into attention. "Oh, right."

She shakes her head good-naturedly and smiles again.

"I'm here to um...uh..." I feel like a teenager with a crush and wish I could will myself to stop stammering like an idiot. What was I here about again? I glance down at my hands. A rose and a leather-bound journal. Oh yes, that's right. "I'm here to read to you."

"Read?" She echoes.

"I like reading to you." I say.

"I don't know." She is somewhat hesitant.

"It's a really good story." I tell her.

"Maybe just for a half-hour." She says, opening the door a little wider. "I'm Susan Pevensie, by the way."

"I know." I say before the full impact of her words hits me. She just said her real name. I stand with my foot halfway in the room, gaping at her.

"What?" She touches her face self-consciously.

"Susan, do you know who I am?" I hold my breath, waiting for an answer.

"How could I?" She gives me a confused look. "We've only just met, haven't we?"

I exhale. She hasn't come back after all. She knows her name but no other memories seem to have returned to her.

"This is for you." I say, not without a hint of sadness in my voice, as I hand her the rose.

"Thank you."

I worry now because she knows her name that she will figure out the journal is about us too soon. But I sit down, open it to the first page, and dare to hope anyway.


	19. Take your leave

Looking up from the journal, I watch her fingers play with the soft white petals of the rose I gave her as she listens. I think she knows, doesn't remember, but _knows_ , that the main female character of the story I am reading having the same name as her isn't just coincidence.

I am surprised that she hasn't sent me away yet. Usually, when she figures it out too soon, fear over-rides all else and she tells me to leave. Ever so sadly, I usually comply with her wishes even though it hurts; hurts like a sharp knife cutting into my flesh and slashing my heart to shreds. Today though, she just listens. She doesn't interrupt, not even to say "I like this story." She just sits still, not moving (With the exception of her fingers on the white rose) or blinking.

Partly, I think the reason she isn't as frightened is because she has not yet figured out my roll in the story. She has figured out that the High King Peter is her husband-his last name _is_ Pevensie after all-but I don't think she relates him to me in any way. She can't remember his face so how could she possibly put it to mine? I am not wearing my wedding ring today so she gets no clues from my fingers either. To her, I am just the reader; the story means something to her, I however, do not.

Her eyes widen and get misty at certain points of the story but for some reason I don't pause much this time around. I don't ask what's wrong-I feel like I already know and that she doesn't want to be asked anyway. Once, I see a few tears roll down her cheeks but she hastily wipes them away, trying to keep them hidden from me.

When I have finished she pauses and speaks up for the first time in hours. "What did I do?"

"What do you mean?" I ask her.

"It's me, isn't it?" She presses, raising an eyebrow at me.

"Yes." I admit, waiting to see if she will recognize me or not. I say nothing and simply stare at her for nearly three minutes before she coughs and repeats herself.

She waits eagerly for my answer and I sigh deeply before giving in and telling her what happened. "You drove to the professor's house and he was there waiting for you."

"Good." She smiles, looking rather relieved.

"Yes, it is good." I force a weak smile, noticing her eyes are still vacant-looking and her face is unreadable.

Does she know who I am? Will she catch on? Has she already? If so, will she say anything about it? This quiet acceptance is not only rare for people with her disorder but also rare for the woman I know she is. She doesn't take things lightly; she never has.

"Where are they?" She wants to know. "What happened to them?"

"Who?"

"Edmund and Lucy. If they're my brother and sister, where are they now?"

 _Oh, Aslan, why does she have to ask that?_ "They're..." I pause for a moment. "They're..." I gulp and swallow whatever spit may have been forming in the corners of my mouth. "They're gone, Susan."

"Gone?" She repeats, unable to understand.

"Gone." I nod, wishing I could say something else-anything else. This is not what I meant to bring back to her. I wanted us to be together; I didn't want her to feel the pain of the loss of our family all over again. "They died, Susan."

Her face goes very white and she clutches the rose a little tighter. "When?"

"About eight years ago." I say, lightly cracking my knuckles against the journal's binding.

"How?"

"In a railway accident."

"I see."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." She reminds me.

"I know, but..."

"It's alright."

"Okay, then."

"What about Peter?" She asks, her voice nearly a whisper. "Did he die, too?"

Reaching out, I put my hand over her's and although I sense a slight shudder-from fear, not revulsion-she doesn't pull away. She lifts up her head slightly to get a better look at my face.

"What happened to him?" She asks again.

"Don't you know?" I whisper, silently pleading with her to remember me. _Please know me._

She looks straight into my eyes and gasps. Instantly, she pulls her hand away from mine and shakes her head rapidly. "No!"

"Susan, I..." I don't know what to say.

"You're him." She murmurs in a choked up voice.

As happy as I am that she knows, I am broken by the expression on her face. She knows alright but still, even now, she doesn't remember. She's afraid of me again; I _hate_ that.

Tear stream down her face faster and faster. "Oh, god."

"Susan..." I try.

She thrusts her face into her hands and weeps harder.

I put a hand on her back to comfort her. She leaps up from her chair and starts backing to the other side of the room. "Don't touch me."

"I wont." In an attempt to reassure her, I put my hands in my pockets.

She stands looking at me for a moment, a look of complete shock and terror, even betrayal written on her face. Then much to my surprise and horror, with no warning, she lets out one short yelp, passes out, and drops to the floor in a dead faint.

"Susan!" I rush over to her just as Della, Carrie, and her regular nurse all run into the room at the same time.

"What happened?" Carrie asks me while Della and the other nurse lift Susan up and carry her over to her bed.

"I don't know." I croak, realizing most of my voice has been lost in the shock of what I just saw happen. "I just read the story to her and she..."

Carrie looks at me sadly. "Oh, no."

"What?" I don't like the way she is looking at me; that expression full of struggle between the professional and personal sides of her personality.

"We'll talk about it later." She tells me, holding her head up a little lower than she usually does. "For now, just leave."

"What?" I can't leave now, my wife just fainted for goodness sake! They can't seriously expect me to just leave the room and go, 'Oh, wasn't that an awful shame? Well, time for tea.' Can they? "I'm not leaving her like this!"

"You've done enough." Her nurse tells me sharply before Della shoots her a dirty look and she mutters, "Sorry."

"Peter, it's time for you to go." Carrie says firmly.

"No." I say defiantly.

"She'll be fine, we're here with her. It's time for you to leave." Della says in her most 'No nonsense from you, Mr. Pevensie' tone of voice; the one that I know to be final.

I glance back at Susan, who is still unconscious. "I'm sorry, Su." I blink back the heavy tears weighing down my eyes, making everything a complete blur. "I'm so sorry."

Two hours later I hear a raspy voice on the intercom come through the clinic speakers, "Would Peter Pevensie please report to the main staff meeting room? That is all...(Deep gasping breath and what sounds almost like a sob)...thank you."

Getting up from my place in the dinning hall where I have been sitting watching Bert Poble cheat at bingo against a younger fellow (Almost everyone's younger than Bert) of about seventy, I wonder what is going on.

Why was the person on the intercom-if I wasn't mistaken-weeping? My first thought is that something must have happened to Susan but then, somehow I know it has to be something else. If something had happened to her, I would have felt it, just known...broken down without being told...I know it must be something else.

When I reach the room, I find that most of the staff wont look at me. At first, I think it is because they are angry and I feel rather fed up with them. Then though, I discover it is because they are hiding their tear-stained, red-eyed, faces from me.

"Is Susan alright?" I blurt out even though in my heart I already know she is.

"She's fine." Della says, in the raspy voice I now recognize as the one from the intercom. "She woke up about an hour ago, didn't remember anything about the day other than someone giving her a rose earlier."

"Oh."

"Please have a seat, Mr. Pevensie." She says, gulping and blinking rapidly.

"What's wrong?" I ask, sitting down in one of the dark brown metal fold-out chairs, glancing over at the near-empty box of doughnuts on the matching table a little ways off.

"Peter," Carrie starts, unable to talk without sobbing. "You don't know how much it hurts to tell you this but..." She puts her hand to her mouth and bursts into hysterical wails. "I can't do this, I can't...I just can't!"

"Can't do what?" I ask, feeling very concerned; more so for her than myself.

Della pats Carrie on the shoulder and then looks over at me sobbing, too. "It's been decided that you...you..." her eyes meet mine and her voice becomes so choked up that for nearly four minutes she can't speak. Finally she finishes her sentence. "You have to leave the clinic."

All the blood drains from my face and I feel like I'm falling rather than sitting still. This is like a bad dream, a horrible nightmare. I practically throw back my chair as I leap up. "What?"

"We're so sorry." Della bawls borderline hysterically.

"I don't understand." I tell her. "Why do I have to go?"

"It's what's best for Mrs. Pevensie." Della says softly. "What you do for her every day is wonderful but she's getting worse, Peter. Having you around isn't going to help, it's only going to make it harder on her and on you. It's what needs to be done."

"No!" I shout, losing my cool completely. "I'm not leaving her! Not now, not ever."

"If you really love her," Carrie says when her sobs have lessened. "You'll go."

"She'll be alright, some days will be worse than others but she'll get though it, you just...can't be there..." Della explains.

"No." I am just as stubborn as they are. "I love her and that's why I wont go."

"She can't handle much more of the kind of strain your reading to her every day puts on her mind." The nurse who takes care of her daily tells me.

"It's not my fault." I protest, knowing that it may well have been her fainting today that caused them to reach this decision.

"You're dismissed, Mr. Pevensie." The head of staff says, not without sounding pained. "Please go to your room and pack up your things. You wont be coming back."


	20. Immortality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Charlie

I feel like a phantom of the person who's life I've lived for the past eight years-a mere apparition of the young man who reads to his wife every day-as I walk to my room dejectedly, an empty suitcase in hand. I am defeated, I've tried everything; I've fought, I've disagreed, I've done all that could be tried with the exception of strapping myself to my bedroom door and refusing to budge. I have to leave tomorrow morning after breakfast and that is final. I'm doing what I never thought any force in the universe could ever make me do; I'm leaving her. Tomorrow. _Goodbye, my beloved._

Slowly, I open the suitcase and line up all of my clothes at the bottom. I take the pictures and the letters and put them away carefully in the smaller compartments. This is the last time I will be in my room, the room that has been my only home for all this time. Soon, everything-I haven't got much-is packed away. Everything that is, except the leather-bound journal. What to do with that? I leave it out, feeling uncertain as to it's proper fate.

There is a light knock at my door.

"It's open." I say, resignedly.

It creaks open and Dr. Chuck walks it. He notices the fully-packed open suitcase on my bed.

"So it's true?" He shakes his head as though he simply cannot believe it. "They're really making you leave?"

"Yes." I say, keeping emotion out of my voice as much as possible, struggling to remain numb so I don't feel and fall to pieces.

"For good?" He double checks.

"Yes."

"Peter, I'm so sorry."

"That's what they all say." I mutter, closing the suitcase and muttering a mild curse word under my breath when I get my finger caught.

"I know..." Dr. Chuck sighs. "I just don't know what else to say."

"Again, that's pretty much everyone's reaction, isn't it?" I can't keep the bitterness out of my voice much longer and I wish he would just leave.

"If it was up to me, I'd let you stay." He tells me flat out.

"You would?" I am rather surprised by this. He hasn't known me or Susan as long as most of the people here have and yet there is so much caring in his tone that you wouldn't necessarily think that. "Don't you think my leaving is better for health?"

"Maybe." He shrugs his shoulders, forced to agree on that point. "Probably, it is."

"Of course." I turn back to the suitcase now and start struggling with the straps and zippers. "Why wont this close?"

"But then, maybe love is better than health." He adds sort of quietly.

I look up at him now. "Do you really believe that?"

He smiles sadly. "Yes."

"Really?" Again, he has surprised me.

He sighs and takes a seat on the bed right next to my suitcase. "Did I ever tell you that my father was a doctor at a clinic sort of like this one?"

"No." I say, moving the suitcase out of the way and sitting down beside him.

"Well, he was." He plays with his hands in his lap while speaking. "One day, he had a very old patient, an elderly man with no family-they had all died a long time ago, when he was young."

"I think I know how he felt." Even though I am not old, I can't help but think about how much I've aged in only these passed few years being without my family.

"This man had one friend in the whole world." Dr. Chuck continues. "A middle-aged woman who'd taken care of him as a sort of nurse years before. One friend, that's it." He sighs deeply, shaking his head before going on. "Well, this woman found out he was very ill and was decided she wanted to come and see him. My father told her not to bother, that the treatment they were going to give him would be enough to keep him alive at least for another week. She kept insisting but so did my father; he said that she could come up another day and that if she arrived, she wouldn't be allowed in to see him until visiting hours started up again. So she didn't come. And do you know what happened?"

"What?" I ask, having the feeling that the answer is going to be very sad indeed.

"He didn't last a week, he didn't even last another day..." He holds his hands still now and his head hangs almost as if in silent prayer or deep meditation. "Peter, that poor man died that very night only an hour later. By all accounts he should have lived, he shouldn't have been dead. To this very day, my father blames himself. He always believed that the man died because he felt lonely and broken, thinking that no one loved him-no one cared. He used to tell me all when I was going through medical school, 'Son, don't make the same mistake I did. Remember this, Medicine is life but love is immortality.' and then he would tell me the story again. I've lost count of how many times I've heard it."

"Wow." Is all I manage to get out.

"I'm not saying I think your wife is going to die if you leave, that's not at all what I mean. What I do mean is simply that you both have so much love between you; you have something immortal. It seems such a shame to give up immortality for something as fleeting as a candle being blown out."

"That's very poetic." I say with a half-smile.

"Well, my brother-in-law is a poet, he sort of taught me to talk like that." Dr. Chuck admits with a mild laugh.

"Mine was too." I tell him.

"Well, goodbye." He says awkwardly, getting up to leave the room.

"Goodbye, Dr. Chuck."

We stand there in front of each other for another second before meeting in a quick hug. In a strange way, it seems only right. He didn't believe, he never did, but he hoped; he always had hope. And in that way, he truly did understand.

Bert Poble is furious when he hears that I am leaving the clinic. He stammers and curses for nearly ten minutes, slamming his hand on the side of his wheelchair before coming back to himself and insisting that I simply can't let them do this to me.

"I don't have a choice, Bert." I explain sadly. "They've already signed papers to give my room to a new patient arriving two days from now."

"But..." His eyes flash desperately. "What about your wife?"

I blink back the river that forms behind my eyelids each time she is brought up. "I have to leave her."

"You don't!" Bert exclaims, almost falling right out of his wheelchair. "There has to be a way..." He thinks for a moment. "I know! Tell them you want to be part of the staff! You can be my personal nurse or something; I'm really old, I need lots of care. That's what them idiots are always saying, surely-"

"Don't you already have nurses?" I remind him, gently.

"So?" He squints at me and his eyebrows turn in. "Who cares about _them_? I'd like you much better than those morons."

"They'd know I only want to stay to be with her and that's why they would never give me a job here in a million years." I point out, unable to keep the pain I still feel towards everything that's happening bottled up.

"But she _needs_ you." Bert practically wails. "We all need you."

"I'll never forget you." I promise him, biting my lip, unable to fully take in the fact that this may be our last conversation.

"Same here." Tears run down his old, wrinkled face like a mini waterfall.

"Goodbye, Bert." I say, leaning down to his level.

"Bye, Peter." He scoots forward in the wheelchair and throws his arms around me. I never thought Bert to be one for hugging but he clings to me tightly for a few moments before telling me something I never knew; something I never suspected even for a moment. He says that I am the best friend he's ever had. Also, he promises to keep an eye on Susan for me even if he has to break every rule the clinic has.

"You're not really leaving, are you?" Miss Rosie asks, her gorgeous eyes looking sad for the first time I have ever noticed, creeping up timidly behind me and Bert.

"Yes, I really am leaving." I can't believe it either.

"When?" Her lower lip trembles.

"Tomorrow morning." I confess, adding that even though is allowed, I might not stay even for breakfast-it might be too painful. Also, if it is at all possible, I want to see Susan one more time before I go.

"I understand." She says, looking like she is trying very hard not to be upset. "These things happen all the time, right?"

"Heck no, they don't." Bert mumbles.

Her lip trembles some more. "Goodbye, Peter."

"Goodbye, Alice."

She kisses me on both cheeks before wobbling away from me as quickly as her weak old legs will carry her.

The hallway is dead quiet. I guess everyone knows now. As I pass by, three quiet older men, who in eight years have spoken to me only to say, "Please pass the salt." sit up straight in their chairs. I have been told that when they were younger, they fought in the first world war. They each have one hand on their foreheads and I realize they are saluting me; this is their way of saying goodbye. They don't need words and neither do I. All I have to do, is nod at them and they know what I mean.

When I reach my bedroom-though it wont be mine for much longer-and see the journal still laid out on the bed beside my suitcase, I know what I have to do. I fling the suitcase back open and take out a pen, paper, and my wife's favorite photograph of us.

Taking care not to ruin it and to make it as clear as possible, I write a good-bye letter to my wife. I tell her that I love her and that I always will. I apologize for breaking a promise I made to her once; that we would never be over. But I also remind her that even though she can't remember and I wont be there anymore, I will never find another. She is my only one, that much will never change. I slide the letter into the journal's binding; it seems only fitting that it reach her the same way her letter reached me. Next, I carefully take the photograph out of it's frame and side it into the journal as a sort of bookmark.

_Medicine is life but love is immortality._

Well, I think to myself, let me give her one thing that is immortal; one thing that will last for ever.

I don't remember falling asleep after getting the letter, picture, and journal ready to give to her but I must have because suddenly my eyes open (though I don't remember closing them) and the clock strikes one in the morning.

I grab the journal and rush out my door in a haste. Then in the stillness of the dark hallway at this hour, I slow down; looking both ways just in case someone should be there. No one stirs and I feel as if I am the only person alive in the whole clinic. Everything has ended, it seems. I walk faster now with purpose and determination. I am almost at her door when I hear someone behind me cough.

"Ahem."

I spin around to see Carrie and Della standing right behind me.

"Hi." I say shortly.

"What are you doing?" Della folds her arms across the her chest.

"It's called walking." I shrug my shoulders at them and quickly slide the journal behind my back. "I couldn't fall back asleep."

"Mr. Pevensie, you aren't really going for a walk, are you?" Della isn't stupid, she knows what I truly have on my mind.

"No," I admit. "I'm going to see Susan."

"You know you can't just walk into her room at night." Carrie says in a gentle, but crushing, tone. "Anything could go wrong."

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning." I say, shooting them both pleading glances. "All I want is to see my wife one more time."

"You can see her in the morning." Della tells me.

"I really need to see her now." I say, refusing to back down.

"Mr. Pevensie, we can't let you go in and see her now." Carrie says firmly, pointing down the hallway. "So you go on back to your room." A small smile creeps onto her face. "As for us, we're going downstairs to get a late night snack because we're absolutely starving. We wont be back on this floor for a while so don't you dare try to sneak in to see her while we're gone."

With that, they walk away, disappearing down the hall.

Curiously, I look over at the reception desk they had been stationed at before I came by. There are two large subs both more than half-eaten. They've already had their late night snack barely five minutes ago by the looks of it.

As I place one hand on the doorknob of Susan's room, I smile to myself thinking back on the past eight years. Yes, there has been heartache and (very much so in the past few days) more tears than I can count. Still, so many wonderful friendships have resulted. Bert, Alice, Carrie, Della, Dr. Chuck, and everyone else who has played a role in the story of my life recently. I love them all dearly and it occurs to me that maybe romantic love isn't the only form of love's immortality.

The truth of the matter, I discover standing there on the threshold of fate so to speak, is simply that all love is immortal. All real love truly is. I see now that these eight years, I haven't really been alone. My sister-in-law's faith and my brother-in-law's writings have made them immortal.

I have seen Lucy's unbreakable faith in everything, without noticing it, it is even in the air I breathe.

And as for Edmund, it was his love for Susan and I which drove him to write that journal-perhaps making him the greatest case immortal love that ever was. He was more than just the boy who redeemed himself and saved Narnia; more than a mere king who was always there when his subjects needed him. Still more than the young man who got between me and a speeding train. It was his love that brought my wife back to me; he is the immortal who rescued us all.

This is it, I think as I turn the doorknob as slowly and gently as possible. What is Aslan's will here? Is this simply what it seems, the beginning of the end, the last night I will ever watch my wife sleep-listening to her steady breathing? Or am I on the way to something greater? Something bigger than myself? Something immortal? I do not know. What I do know is that I have in my hands one last gift for the woman I love, even if we remain ungraced by the forces that cause miracles.

With a mild creak, the door opens and I walk in, shutting it behind me as quietly as possible.

As if in a dream, I wander over to my wife's bedside. Much to my great relief, she does not looked plagued nor does she seem to have cried herself to sleep tonight. Susan looks, well, like Susan. Sleeping soundly and peacefully without a care in the world.

The blinds on the window are not shut although the curtains are mostly drawn. A faint line of the glowing moonlight slices through a gap and lands on her face making her seem even more beautiful-if that is possible. I surprise myself by not weeping right then and there. Maybe it is because at the moment, my heart doesn't realize I'm going to leave her tomorrow. Maybe all it knows is that I am with her now and that she loves me just as much as I love her.

Being careful not to wake her, I lift up her head a bit so I can slide the journal, letter, and photograph under her pillow. Once these things are deep enough under there that she isn't likely to find them until morning, I place her back down.

Now what? I wonder if I should leave. My feet refuse to move. I have to stay with her a little longer. I take a seat on the bed beside her and watch her as she rolls over mumbling something in her sleep. It is a relaxed sort of mumble and for some reason I find this very reassuring.

I bend down and kiss her forehead, gently running my fingers along one of her cheeks.

Still asleep, she leans into my caress and sighs as I whisper, "I love you, I wish you didn't have to forget that."

Now I stand up and turn to leave, knowing if I can't will myself to go now, I'll never be able to say goodbye. Then though, something as gentle as the wing of a butterfly but still firm as anything latches onto my hand refusing to let it go; she has taken my hand in her own.

"Peter..." She murmurs, bringing my hand back to her face.

My eyes can no longer stay dry. I can tell from her tone that she both knows and remembers me, that I am dear to her again. This is far more than I had hoped for. Simply to be able to see her one last time and to leave the journal behind for her seemed the only possible goal. Yet, she's found her way back to me. Whether or not this is triggered by my reading earlier that day or simply a completely unexplainable miracle, I do not know. Nor do I want to. Let it be a mystery. I don't need to know, I only need to be with her as long as I can.

She is at least half-awake now but her eyes aren't open all the way as she gently runs my hand along her cheek and neck. Ever so slowly, she drags it also to her bosom before sliding it down to her waist so that my arm goes around her middle. I pull myself closer to her in the bed, placing my other arm around her also so that I can hold her as we lay there together.

I consider telling her that I'm leaving tomorrow-she has a right to know. Then again, if this really is a miracle it, too, will pass with time and it is likely she wont remember any of this in the morning. Why should I spoil what is probably going to be our last night together? Why put her through the tears of separation? Isn't that what hurt her so badly about her disorder to begin with; the thought of losing me? Or maybe I am just too ashamed to say it aloud and am cowardly enough to have her read it in a letter whenever she should happen to find it in the binding.

"Peter, I'm glad you came." She whispers, turning her head just slightly so she can look at my face out of the corner of her eye.

"I had to." I say simply.

"I love you." She says.

 _I'm going away tomorrow, Susan, for ever; please forgive me._ "I love you, too."


	21. slipped away together

The next morning, I awake to find myself much more comfortable than when I went to sleep. The bed I am on feels incredibly soft, very much like the one I used to sleep on during my rein as High King of Narnia. Also, I can feel heavy satin sheets and velvet blankets piled on me. My wife is still in my arms, snoring into my chest.

This is almost exactly how I used to wake up in Narnia and I know this must be a dream and all of the wonderful warm feelings are only memories. Soon, I will wake up and have to leave her.

Not now though, now we are together. If only it could stay like this for ever just the two of us so warm and safe...sighing, I kiss the top of her head near the hairline and breathe deeply. Soon she'll wake up and wont know me; this lovely dream is mere moments from fading away.

I realize something very odd. My face had still been bruised from Susan slapping me during one of her recent fits and although I have long grown used to it, the scars on my knuckles from beating up that man who'd wanted to hurt Susan have always felt sort of numb, calloused even. Now however, I find I don't feel the numbness nor the pain. It is as if I have been healed from all my wounds.

From above the bed, I hear a small gasp. "Oh, your majesties!"

"Hmm?" I mutter, opening one eye a crack to see a startled familiar-faced faun hovering above me.

"You came early." He says.

"Master Tumnus, is that you?" I open both eyes and blink rapidly.

"Yes, your majesty, it's me." He answers.

What in the world? I turn away from him and glance down, Susan is still sleeping in my arms. Her nightgown has become Archenland silk with Narnian lace and looking at my right arm I can tell, I too, am no longer dressed for England's world.

But wasn't Tumnus dead? I thought he had passed away long ago. Part of me wants to stick with the 'this is a dream' theory but I know it cannot be. It feels too real, you can't sense a memory like this.

"I wouldn't have come in without knocking but we hadn't been expecting you yet." Tumnus tells me.

"You were expecting us?" I whisper, my eyebrows sinking deeply into my forehead from intense confusion.

"Not yet." Tumnus shrugs his shoulders. "Shall I get you something to eat?"

"What is this place?" I blurt out, making sure to keep my voice low so as not to wake Susan. "Where am I?"

"You are home, High King." Tumnus says in a tone that suggests both that he thinks I should have known that already and also that he doesn't really mind explaining the situation. "This is Cair Paravel."

"The last time I saw it, it was in ruins." I remind him. "Did someone rebuild it? Also, Aslan said I was never to return to Narnia; this is Narnia isn't it? Not some place else that just feels like it perhaps?"

"This is Aslan's country." Tumnus explains. "Narnia is no more."

"What happened?"

"That world ended." His voice is rather grave all of a sudden.

"Is all of Aslan's country like the place we called Narnia?" I want to know.

He shakes his head no. "All worlds are here. There is an Archenland and an England here too."

"What did you mean when you said you were expecting us?" I ask him.

"Aslan said you and Queen Susan would be coming to him soon but he didn't say when. We thought it might be years still before your arrival. Also, he never said if you would both come at the same time. We were on the look out for either one of you, really." His explanation makes so much sense and yet no sense at all at the same time.

"Why are we here?" I ask, still keeping my voice down. "Did our world end, too?"

Tumnus shakes his head. "No, I don't think so." He motions to the window. "Every time a world ends, our sky flashes with deep scarlet lightning. Only for a short moment; still it always happens. Today though, the sky has been nothing but its regular fair blue."

A large golden paw appears in the doorway, followed by a full gold body of the Lion. Aslan himself has come to see us.

"Hullo, Aslan." I lower my head respectfully to make up for the fact that I cannot get up and give him a proper reception.

"Welcome, High King Peter, Son of Adam." He says, coming over to the bedside.

I smile weakly at the lovely golden Lion. Aslan is wonderful, yet he seems to have some deep love for tormenting me. First he gave me Narnia to rule over and then sent me away from my kingdom for ever. Now, He is showing me this wonderful vision; my heart's desire. He must plan on sending us back sooner or later and whenever we go back, I'll lose Susan again.

"Why do you seem so unhappy, Peter?" He inquires gently, lifting a golden eyebrow up in a concerned expression.

"I don't know if I can bear to lose her again, Aslan." I confess, my eyes filling with tears, some of which fall on my sleeping wife's nose.

"What do you mean?"

"Aren't you going to send us back to our own world?" I look over at Tumnus and then back to him brokenly.

"Oh, son of Adam, haven't you guessed?" Aslan's expression now seems somewhere between a comforting glance and a slightly amused smile.

"Guessed what?" I whisper breathlessly, daring to hope just once more.

"You aren't going back." He tells me. "In your world, you died last night; both of you."

"We went together..." I realize, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

"Yes." His golden mane sways up and down as he nods slowly.

"In our sleep?"

"Yes."

"Aslan?"

"Yes?"

"Will she still remember me?" I hold my breath, waiting for an answer.

"I think she will." Aslan says reassuringly. He turns around and pads softly out of the room, the door closing behind him with a weak _thump_.

Susan's eyes shoot open and she let's out a gasp. "Peter, what happened?"

"We went in our sleep." I tell her, watching her free herself from my grip and sit up in the bed. "Last night."

"Oh..." Her eyes widen and she gazes at me blankly for a moment.

"We should get up." I say, pulling the covers off of myself and dragging myself out of bed.

"I'll spread word of your arrivals, sire." Tumnus tells me with a little bow before scampering out of the room, his goat-hooves making a slight click clack on the marble as he enters the hallway.

As if in a dream, Susan creeps over to her closet and pulls out a long gown the colour of the moon itself with pale blue lace and bright glittering silver buttons in the front. She dresses herself quickly but in a savory fashion-glancing over at me as I take off my night-shirt, replacing it with a dark blue and purple tunic.

Once dressed, we go out into the hallway ourselves. Coming toward us is a fair-haired girl who's face I recognize at once. "Lucy!"

Her eyes meet mine and a wide toothy grin spreads out on her face reaching nearly from ear to ear. She squeals and practically throws herself at us both tightly clinging to our shoulders.

"I've missed you!"

"Oh, Lu, we've missed you far more!" Susan weeps, pulling her little sister into another hug.

I am just about to reach down and hug them both again when I notice a young man wearing a silver crown on his head coming towards us. It is Edmund but not as I last saw him with burns and bruises on his face; his whole body covered in gray ashes. Rather, it is King Edmund the just, healed of all his wounds and happy to see his sister and brother-in-law returning home.

For a moment, we stare at each other, unsure of exactly what to say. I cannot put my gratitude for what he did into words.

"Did you read it to her?" He asks finally.

"Yes," I say in a choked up voice. "Every day."

"And did she come back to you?"

"Yes."

"Good." He seems satisfied. "Welcome home, Peter."

"Edmund, thank you!" I throw my arms around him and hug him tightly.

"My dear poet." Susan murmurs, planting a kiss on the top of his head.

"I most certainly am not a poet." Edmund huffs jokingly.

"Not this argument again!" Lucy rolls her eyes and grabs onto my wrist. "Come on, Peter." She tucks her other hand under Susan's arm. "You, too. There's so many people for you both to meet."

That night, crawling into bed, I find myself wondering about the people at the clinic back in our world. I wonder what we look like to them now. Did they find two corpses (shudder) or did we simply disappear? Will they ever know that we are alright? That we are happy and have simply been called home? At the very least, I hope they have the leather-bound journal with them; to remember us by.

My thoughts melt away as my wife leans close to me and kisses my cheek. There will be more time to reflect on other worlds some other night, right now I can't concentrate on that. I pull her close to me and kiss her lips and then her neck. I drag my fingers along the front of her dress and, ever so slowly, start to slip the silver buttons through their little holes, one by one.


End file.
